


A Summer’s Dance

by Wreybies



Series: Ser Podrick the Round and Timmor the Red [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Belly Kink, Canon-Typical Violence, Elswhere Fic (sorta), Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Male Slash, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Post-Canon, Swordplay, Swords, summer isles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-04-29 01:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14462343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wreybies/pseuds/Wreybies
Summary: …Podrick continued to wade out to where Issa was, her small high breasts just breaking the surface.  Podrick could see his own feet perfectly, the water was so clear and clean.“Westerosi men are supposed to be small down there.” Issa flicked her eyes to what she meant, below the water yet clearly visible. “It seems not all tales one hears are to be believed.”Even with the sun as fierce as it was, still he felt himself flame red in the cheeks.  How did one respond to that?  He stared at her realizing he could not determine her age.  She could be his age, or ten years his senior.  It was hard to say. She saved him the effort of responding.“I’m sorry, Ser Podrick. The tales we hear of knights from Westeros paint a certain image of what they are like, and you are not like that at all. I never thought to meet a shy knight.” She let her feet come away from the bottom and floated. “Tell me how you met Timmor.  From what I know of your land, that must certainly be an interesting tale…”





	1. Brienne

They rode low in the water, the Ruby weighed down with ballast of white and pink marble.Two other ships rode aft, equally low in the water.The first unseasonably cool nights had come to Tarth and Lady Brienne set a plan in motion to trade marble from Tarth to the Summer Isles.Winter was not a time for building in Westeros, but the goods to be had in the Summer Isles would be of value in the days to come.  She meant to establish Tarth’s position in the newly unified realms as a port of trade and commerce.Winter was not going to be a period of stagnation and waiting behind walls at Evenfall Hall.House Tarth and the Sapphire Isle would make use of the time as a boon, as a time to recuperate from the wars and the prior ascension of house after house to positions of control and dominance.Tarth had been a kingdom unto itself at one time, and though Lady Brienne’s allegiance to the throne was absolute, she would not wait to see what was handed her.She would make it herself, to the benefit of all, and to the stability of her castle and lands.Tarth would rise, and its rise would not be dependent on the fragile peace in Westeros, a peace that was more an armistice, a pause to face the implacable foe of the long winter, than any real accord.

The weather warmed noticeably when the waters of the Summer Sea went from dark green to deepest blue and then on to lighter shades, sure sign they were nearing their destination.Though quarters were cramped, she busied the few men who weren’t regular crew with training, trading them every so often from one ship to the next to keep them from getting on one another’s nerves, and out of the way of the ship crews who would soon help her trade with the Summer Islanders for grains, spices, and gemstones that could then be traded on for other, more perishable items from Westeros and Essos.She had expanded the port south of Evenfall Hall in the last year to accommodate more berths and larger ships in its calm, protected waters, and she’d widened and revamped the area off of the quay to make it attractive for merchants to set up business.She took only a modest rent from these merchants in hopes of encouraging their concerns, which would in turn serve the island as a whole.The spaces had filled rapidly and the quay was now constantly abuzz with the sound of spirited haggling and striking of deals.The vibrancy of the port area was auspicious and gave birth to a small makeshift village where the merchants resided.She provided aid to make the area clean, orderly, and law-abiding.The merchants knew a good thing when they saw it and became quite self-policing, intolerant of disorder or anything that might spell Lady Brienne’s disfavor or a curtailment of her generosity and the protection of Evenfall Hall.

She had chosen to personally accompany this venture to the Summer Isles in order to establish her presence, and frankly, to show her face to the Summer Islanders.She wanted them to know that the Lady of Evenfall Hall was interested in establishing solid, long term, direct trade with them.She was also admittedly curious to see their fabled lands where trees grew like castles and unknown, fantastic birds and beasts made their homes.The few times she had dealt with them face to face, she found them to be refreshingly direct, open, and completely indifferent to the fact that she was a woman.They dealt with her with the same respect as any lord would expect, and that sat well with her.She wished to return the sentiment.The holds of the Ruby, the Summer Sun, and the Prancing Mule held as much of Tarth’s finest white marble as they could carry.Two of Tarth’s best stonemasons and an apprentice, enticed by the prospect of plying their trade in a foreign land, joined the venture eagerly.They would stay for a year and return when the ships brought the next cargo of marble, assuming all went well. 

Ser Podrick and Ser Randel respectively rode the Summer Sun and the Prancing Mule as her eyes, ears, hands and voice while she lead in the Ruby.She kept Timor Buckler with her on the Ruby, not out of prudishness - she was no fool as regards the needs of men when there was no other outlet - but from a sense of protectiveness. She wanted to spare him and Podrick the need to navigate their relationship in tight quarters.Better to keep them separate and focused on their duties.To their credit, they seemed to understand her intent and resolved to take the separation unquestioningly, as a matter of course and propriety. 

“Land ho!” The cry came from the Prancing mule. 

She saw nothing, and then a shimmering blur danced on the horizon.A seabird circled overhead on long, thin white wings tipped with black. 

Timmor came up from belowdecks.She watched him scan the horizon and confusion followed by disappointment settle into his brow.

“It will be some time,” she said.“Then we will skirt the coast.”

The captain joined them.“Winds are strong from the west, m’lady.We’ll tack westward, then come in from the south ‘round Last Lament.We’ll be a day or two.”

Timmor’s lip squirreled up in further disappointment.Lady Brienne grimaced her amusement.The young were so impatient.“Drop the sail a bit and let the Summer Sun and Prancing Mule advance and come alongside.I wish to speak to all the men.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

As heavy as the ships were with marble, it was a delicate operation bringing the three alongside one another, but the captains of each ship were disciplined, skilled men, as were their crews. 

Ser Podrick, Ser Randel, and the captains of the Summer Sun and the Prancing Mule crossed to the Ruby and met with Lady Brienne on the quarter deck.Timmor was still Ser Podrick’s squire, but on this voyage he had shifted his roll to Lady Brienne, and he remained at her side, though the furtive glances between him and Podrick were clear to anyone looking for them.The captains agreed with the path to follow, as unified of mind as if they had spoken prior.In truth, the winds were calling the shots and the captains abiding their whim.She left them to their business, assured by their efficiency and matter of fact manner.

Ser Randel and Podrick were given orders to check the holds, assure that any shifting of the cargo had not damaged it - they were to confer with the stonemasons on this matter - and then to assure that the men had their uniforms in good order and as presentable as possible after weeks at sea with only the occasional rain shower under which to bathe.She meant for House Tarth to present a solid, dignified impression upon landing.

The ships parted and tacked their way west.


	2. Podrick

Belowdecks was sweltering.On deck wasn’t much better, but at least the air moved under a slight breezeAfter rounding Last Lament, which was seen only from a distance, the Summer Sun and her sisters, the Prancing Mule and the Ruby, hugged the coast where the waters were as clear and turquoise as those of Tarth.The ships were followed by great, blunt-nosed porpoises riding their wakes.Other creatures Podrick had never seen, looking like sleek dogs with large black flippers for legs, played in amongst the porpoises.They chased each other through the rolling crest of foam that curled off either side of the ship.They cleared the crest of the wake, leaping as high as they could, turning their heads to the ship, trying to get a look at its inhabitants, occasionally barking a low guttural greeting.The intelligence in their eyes was uncanny.

The marble in the holds had been well secured and the trip had been without incident of foul weather; hence, there were no issues that the stonemason could see with the goods, lovingly passing his hands over the rough white surface of the slabs, streaks of red and pink running through them like blood.For the hundredth time Podrick remembered the day at the waterfall when he was later knighted and came so close to losing Timmor.The marble had become a symbol of his love.The white was Timmor’s purity and innocence.The red was, by turns, the flame of his hair, the blood he had seen at Timmor’s throat when Toryen had dared to harm him, the fury and the fear in his heart.

Alren and Luras, both swords to Lady Brienne, watched the coast drift by with Podrick. 

“There are things in them trees ain’t got no name,” said Alren.

“They have names, just not in our language,” replied Luras in his silky Dornish accent. 

“We’ll learn their names soon enough, I should think.Like those water dogs swimming with the porpoises.” Podrick pointed out their supple bodies in the wake of the ship.

“Those are sea lions, Ser Podrick,” answered Luras.“We have them on the southern coasts of Dorn.These here are quite small and sleek.I must say they swim with considerable grace.I have seen ones that are huge, rippling their bodies across the beach, roaring if you approach, but they are made to swim and lack the limbs to chase a man.Still, they are to be respected.The males fight amongst themselves for the females, leaving one another bloody and torn.”

“They’ve nothing to fear from me,” said Alren.“I’m wary of dogs with proper legs, never mind dogs with whatever they have.”

“Not dogs, lions.Sea lions,” corrected Luras.

“I’ve seen lions, and those don’t look like lions.They look like dogs.I hope the Summer Islanders are better at naming their animals than you Dornish.”

Their rivalry was famous at Evenfall Hall.Alren the commoner from the fields, Luras the worldly Dornishman.As different as night and day, and the best of friends.Podrick liked them greatly.It had been they who had entered the farmhouse where Timmor was captive, taking out Toryen’s men.Since that time they had formed an unspoken bond with Timmor, teaching him to squire properly so that he came to know things that Podrick had never shown him, like when fittings could no longer be cleaned of rust and had to be replaced instead, without Podrick ever asking him to get it done.He had become their younger brother and Podrick did not begrudge them. 

* * *

Lotus Point, their destination, was at the head of a long, narrow, deepwater bay.Mountains rose to either side, violently green.Captain Desmor pointed out ships from Lys and Tyrosh and also the slim, fast boats of the local Summer Islanders with their sails of vibrant colors.They preferred those narrow little darts - most of which had two hulls bound together by long poles - for local trade and travel.The captain was clearly fascinated by these vessels, waxing on about their speed and handling, and how the islanders raced them past the surf. 

“Look at that,” he said, pointing at one of the boats with two hulls.The small boat sliced through the water at speed with barely a ripple, three bare-chested men plying large, leaf shaped oars in perfect sync.Podrick had seen dark men before, but none so dark as these, and never had he seen men - of any color - so powerfully built.Not nearly as large as the Mountain had been, but where he had been freakish huge, these men looked carved from solid basalt. 

“If you keep staring, I think you will make Timmor jealous,” said Luras, having slipped silently to his side. 

“What?” said Podrick, as much surprised but the statement as by Luras’s sudden presence.Podrick flushed but said nothing, waving him off.

Luras’s chest shook with silent laughter.“Lucky for me, the woman are even more beautiful,” he said.

“Do you ever think of anything else?” Podrick asked.

“There _is_ nothing else, Ser Podrick.In the end, everything we do is just to have someone beautiful to hold at night.You already have Timmor, so it doesn’t occur to you,” Luras stated with an air of having proclaimed one of the great truths of life.Perhaps he was right.

“My lady does not think this way,” replied Podrick.

“Our lady is a lady unlike any other.She does not collect lovers, but children.” Again, he spoke as though reading from an ancient tome.

“Don’t be imprudent, Luras.”

He raised his hands in surrender.“No imprudence, Ser Podrick.I am happy to count myself amongst her children.Look what she does.We are here to trade so that our house may prosper.She creates opportunity for the folk of Tarth so that they too may prosper.Daenerys Stormborn is the mother of dragons; Lady Brienne of Tarth is the mother of lost children.”

He said it without cheek.Perhaps it was true as well.Podrick justly carried the name of House Payne, but until meeting Brienne, it had meant little.It saved him from the noose once, yes, but other than that, all it meant was a life of serving those who saw him as disposable.No, that wasn’t fair.Tyrion Lannister had been good to him.He’d been a foulmouthed drunk, often bitter, but always good to him.And he was a dwarf, despised by his entire family, save for his brother Jaime.

Was honor only to be found amongst those thrown onto the rubbish heap?


	3. Timmor

The town of Lotus Point was something out of a fantasy.

Everywhere there was color in jewel tones fit for a king or queen.The stalls along the quay had wide awnings of rich cloth to shade the buyers and venders alike.Some had writing, but most had images dyed or painted onto the fabric so that the wears to be found within were known well before the ship slowly docked alongside the quay.One had golden sheafs of wheat painted on the awning, another had fruit.There was an axe and chisel, perhaps indicating woodwork.Some were indecipherable to Timmor, but it only made him more curious to know what could be had therein. 

When the ship was secured and the gangplank lowered, Lady Brienne and Timmor were the first to debark.Lady Brienne left the Ruby’s cargo in the hands of her captain.As the Summer Sun and the Prancing Mule tied off, she left the guarding of their cargo to Ser Podrick and Ser Randel.Timmor remained silently at Lady Brienne’s side, but Podrick gave him a wink when he turned back up the gangplank of the Summer Sun.If Lady Brienne saw, she made no comment.

Timmor knew not one word of the Islander language, but he imagined to himself the conversations between the tall, elegant people.Here, an older woman was clearly haggling for a better price on some fish. _I can get fresher at a better price elsewhere._ There, some children traded what looked like sweets, making known their favorites. _I’ll trade you these red ones for your yellow ones._ Both men and women carried woven baskets on their heads, their contents unknown, their voices as sonorous and rich as the bright colors they wore. 

A young couple walked hand in hand.The young woman eschewed the colors everyone else wore, instead dressed in purest white, her hair a cascade of glossy plaits flowing back from a wide, white head cloth.She was stunning, as was the young man.The glances they passed one another were universal.Young love.New love.

Lady Brienne cleared her throat. 

He looked up to find her watching him.“You’re gawping, Timmor.”

“My lady, it’s so…”

“Yes, it is, Timmor.Now come with me.We must find someone to serve as interpreter.” 

They walked the long procession of stalls and spoke with several people until a woman selling fruits pointed down the quay repeating _talíb, talíb_.When the words proved opaque to Lady Brienne, she left her stall in the hands of a younger woman and waved for them to follow.Talíb proved to be an older man who worked leather.They were introduced and the man stepped out from behind a workbench.

“Welcome, welcome!” he said.“How can I serve you, Westerosi?”

“I am Brienne of Tarth.I have come to trade marble.With whom should I speak?” 

“Of Tarth?The Sapphire Isle?” the man asked.

“You know of it?” Mild surprise in Lady Brienne’s voice.

“Of course!We are both islanders, no?I am afraid I do not know your lord’s name, though.Much has changed since the wars in your lands.”

“Yes, much has changed.I am Lady of Evenfall Hall.”

“ _You_ are the Evenstar?” 

She paused, an odd expression on her face.“I don’t usually refer to myself as such, but… yes.” 

“You must not be served by any who are here in the market, my lady.”The man touched his forehead and gave a rough bow.“The prince will wish to attend you directly.”Talib called to a young boy who came over quickly.He spoke words to him, of which only the word Evenstar was recognizable, and the boy looked up at Lady Brienne with wide eyes.Talib shooed him brusquely and the boy ran off down the quay. 

Talíb knew everyone.While they waited, word spread and soon they were being offered chilled fruit juices, spicy meats, and aromatic rice.When Lady Brienne tried to pay, Talib waved away her coin.

“You must let me pay, Talíb,” she insisted. 

“Tell the prince I have been of service to you.That is worth more than coin, my lady.” 

She smiled her assent. 

Rations had been abundant on the ship, but Timmor was sick of the taste of salt-pork and fish.The spicy meats were mouthwatering, tender and flavorful.The cold juices were sweet and refreshing, so different from wine or ale with food.The rice was perfumed with jasmine and other spices new to his palate.It was the best meal Timmor had ever tasted.When he was finished he perused the items in Talib’s stall.Excellent satchels in leather as soft as cotton.Vests trimmed with feathers.Belts and buckles of heavy, hard leather and steel with intricate patterns worked into both.Beautiful sandals of braided leather with rope soles. 

“Do you make all these things yourself?” Timmor asked, one of the sandals still in hand.

“Yes, I make all these things.Here, those are too small for you.”He got up and took the sandal from Timmor, replacing it with a larger, more robust pair, equally beautiful and finely crafted in blue and green. 

“Try them on.” 

When Timmor hesitated, Talib silently insisted, sitting him down, making him take his boots off.They were too large, according to Talib, and he brought another pair.They laced all the way up to just below the knee and Talíb showed him how to lace them so that they didn’t chafe or bind.After weeks of boots, they felt like freedom. 

“These are wonderful,” Timmor said. 

A huge smile lit Talib’s face.He put his hand to his chest and said, “You are very kind.When you return to Tarth you will tell everyone ‘these are Talib’s sandals’ and they will come to me.” 

“But…” Timmor reached for his purse.

“No, no.”Talib refused again.It occurred to Timmor that their stay was costing the man in both money and favors.He thanked him profusely for the sandals but did not dare look at or touch anything else, lest Talib give away his whole stall.

Presently, two women and a man returned with the boy whom Talib had sent.They addressed Lady Brienne directly, conspicuously ignoring Talíb.

One woman was in a flowing lilac dress of rippling diaphanous fabric, the other in a complex orange and yellow garment that wrapped around her and became a train at the small of her back.The man was shirtless, with vibrant green pants and a beaded collar that draped the upper part of his chest and back.His hair had been transformed into a perfect iridescent cap of blue feathers.

“Lady Brienne,” said the women in the lilac dress.“The prince offers you his hospitality and hopes you will do him the honor of being his guest.”

“The honor will be mine,” responded Brienne with just a hint of a bow.“I have some men with me and cargo to trade.Three ships.”

The woman in orange and yellow said, “Yes, the prince has sent me to see your cargo.” 

The man who had accompanied them remained silent and only gestured down the quay, back toward the ships.

* * *

 

The woman in orange and yellow, whose name was Issa, inspected the cargo of the Summer Sun, the last of the ships, with a careful eye.The man, whose name was not yet known, held a small slab that had been worked and polished into the sigil of House Tarth.It was meant as an example of the stone itself and of the workmanship of the stonemasons that were to remain with the cargo.

Timmor watched all of this in dutiful silence, taking it in.His father would have had him hide away, invisible to these goings-on, but Lady Brienne clearly wanted him to see, to know, to understand.The privilege was not lost him. 

“This marble is very fine, my Lady of Tarth.The color and grain is exquisite.”She had spoken with the stonemasons on the Ruby, who had been surprised when she spoke in their own arcane terms, clearly well-versed in the qualities of stone and the art of working it, but she had refrained from making any pronouncement on the cargo until now, alone with Lady Brienne and Timmor.“My prince will want to do business with you.”


	4. Odé Qaxar

 Odé Qaxar did not yet know who had arrived, but _someone_ had, and it was clear that the prince had spoken. His words became a silent web of motion, servants scurrying like ants. A line of ants only looks disorderly at a glance or from afar. When you stop to pay attention, you see that they move with a purpose, each knows where she is going as she carries her bit of of leaf or twig. Each knows exactly what she is doing. They even stop now and then to touch their antennae and then move on, some unknown information or greeting having been exchanged. She stayed out of the servants’ way, as much to keep from being underfoot as to avoid being asked to help. She would only make a mess of things. The prince had a love of precision and presentation and Odé had precision to offer, but hers was of another kind. Quotidian affairs were not her strength, her own room typically in disarray.

She made her way through shaded pathways between courtyards, across lawns rarely traversed, save by her and the occasional lemur, surprised by her approach, squawking its disapproval. Women in white dresses and white headscarves, men in white pants and white beads - the palace servants - eyed her as she cut through the paths that linked the different areas of the palace complex. They said nothing, knowing Odé was given a certain license to do as she pleased.

This much fuss meant it was a group, not just an individual, Odé thought to herself.

 _Interesting_.

She headed back toward the guest huts to see how many were being attended. Seven in all, included the large one reserved for important visitors.

 _More and more interesting_.

The buttresses of the grand ceiba tree near the prince’s quarters hid her for a moment. Where was Marco, she wondered? At this time of day, probably in the training court, where else? She pressed her hand to the fat spines on the wall of the buttress root in front of her. Blood for the little sisters, and a silent prayer for protection.

Out from the shelter of the ceiba, through the wall of Dornish agave that was both decorative and dangerous. Not a blade touched her. Behind the prince’s own personal quarters, unseen, unheard in the shadows. Out to the western side of the complex where she would find Marco Hara.

“Odé.” The voice was as deep as dark water, and just as smooth.

She did her best to hide her shock and disappointment at being caught slinking through the back ways.

“My prince.” She touched her forehead and bowed deeply. He had come from nowhere, but who was she to question his comings and going? Perhaps he had been watching her. He did sometimes. It made her feel like a pet.

“You take such joy in shaming my guards with your antics. Do I punish them or you?” he said, his face set into a grimace of annoyance.

“Neither, my prince. They offer a good challenge. They are the strop and I am the blade. They keep me sharp.” She was careful to hold any tone of cheek from her voice.

Still, the prince chuckled. “You want to know who has come. Lady Brienne of Tarth. She comes to trade.”

“I would have thought the Westerosi were hiding in their castles now, waiting for winter to end.” Now she was _very_ curious. Lady Brienne was known to her. The warrior lady of Westeros.

“Tarth is not quite as far south as Dorn, Odé, but far enough. Tarth is still warm and the Lady wishes to make best use of her advantage.”

“As my prince says.” Better to take his word now and ask Brienne herself.

“Try and behave while they are here, Odé. Remember your courtesies and where you are.” He gestured vaguely with both hands, taking in the palace complex.

“Of course, my prince.” _Fair enough_ , she thought. 

“Where are you going?”

“I seek Marco Hara, my prince. I am restless and in need of a workout.”

He turned and made a slight gesture with one hand, giving her leave to go. She bowed again and made for the regular path.

It was a strange game, one she’d known since childhood. She knew equally well how dangerous it was. You tease the big cat in the trees at your own risk. But she knew his signals as well. When he would pounce rather than sit on the limb, flicking his tail, pretending indifference, watching you the whole time.

Brienne of Tarth. Odé imagined how she would look, how she would sound. Wild and gleaming in steel, wielding death in generous amounts. She caught herself in the fantasy of this barbarian woman, muscled like a man, enormous breast, blade bigger than anything a person could truly carry.

_Why enormous breasts?_

She laughed at her own silliness. She would wait to see who this woman truly was. Fact is always much more interesting than fiction, and whatever facts had lead to her legend crossing the Summer Sea to Odé’s ear must be something to hear.

Marco Hara was in the training court, as expected. Sweaty and shirtless, as expected. Bronze skin, eyes that went from blue at the edges to gold at the center. His hair jet black and lank. He had arrived when she was a younger woman and entertained the prince with his unique skills.The prince had taken a shine to his extravagant mannerisms and exuberant displays of punctilio, and Marco became a part of the palace menagerie. He would be gorgeous if he weren’t so vain. His initial advances toward Odé years ago had been met with heartfelt humor on her part. She eventually took pity, sure he had never heard the word _no_ in such matters, which he later confirmed was true.Woman, men, whomever he wanted, he had only to suggest the idea and they were in his bed. He was giving her his typical line of assurances and bravado, extolling his attributes one day, when she stopped him and said, “Marco, I have no interest in _that_ ,” pointing at the area of his manhood. “But _that_ does interest me.”

It was the slim length of a sword at his waist to which she had pointed.


	5. Podrick

 They were shown into the palace. There were guards with great bows at small, open turrets evenly spaced around the top of the wall. It was clear why so many of the people here had such impressive upper musculature, even the woman. It must take great strength to pull back a bow such as those. Pordrick imagined any arrow loosed by such a thing would hardly slow down at all as it passed clean through its target.

The woman in the lilac dress mentioned to Lady Brienne that she would show the party to their accommodations, while the other woman and man took Lady Brienne and Sir Randel to meet with the prince. Podrick was to see that all the men were situated and to keep an eye on them. Lady Brienne noticed that the men had drawn some attention, much of it from women, and her men were equally captivated in return.

“Keep them in line, Ser Podrick,” she said loudly enough for all to hear. In a lower voice, just for him, “We are guests here and much depends on this. I want no incidents.”

Podrick nodded and gave the men his best glare, which he knew was nothing compared to Lady Brienne’s most casual glance.

When Lady Brienne took her leave with Ser Randel, he gestured for them to gather around.

“Don’t make me pay for your stupidity, understand? I’m not going to treat you like children, so do me the kindness of behaving like men in the service of House Tarth. I am sure once we are settled, there will be amusement enough for all.”

“You can rely on our discretion and honor, Sir Podrick.” Luras made a theatric bow, to the soft laughter of the rest of the men, but Podrick saw him glance at Timmor, feeling uncomfortable at the implication.

Podrick turned to their escort and said, “I apologize, but I did not get your name.”

She tipped her head ever so slightly and said, “I am Mara, Ser Podrick.” She glanced at the men, then said, “There is refreshment waiting in your rooms, but if there are other needs…?” She left the obvious unsaid.

Podrick stammered at the blunt acknowledgement, “No. Thank you.” His face flamed with embarrassment. “My lady has asked that the men rest, and… well… that will be for her to say.”

Mara tipped her head again, but there was a twinkle in her eye that said she found Podrick’s embarrassment amusing. She indicated the huts that had been prepared and Podrick assigned one to each of the men, including one for Timmor, which provoked a look of disappointment from him. Luras had assured him that the Summer Islanders found Westerosi prudery to be at best quaint, at worst rather sad. Still, he did not wish be the cause of his lady’s dishonor or embarrassment, no matter how he longed for Timmor. It had been weeks aboard the ships, where Lady Brienne had carefully and obviously kept them separated. Aboard the Summer Sun, there had been the occasional liaison between the men, in the ship’s hold, where it was understood that such meetings were nothing more than a needful release of certain urges, though it was clear within the first week that one of the deckhands, a young man of blond hair and unusually attractive aspect, was the favored partner. He didn’t seem to mind and the other men occasionally gave him favors for his attentions.

Podrick had not partaken. No matter how strong the urge had been. No matter that he could hear the grunts and sighs on the other side of the bulkhead tormenting him. He would not do such a thing to Timmor. The blond lad was indeed pretty, but Timmor was his whole life. One day, far from now, Evenfall Hall would be his domain, but it would be nothing but cold stones upon a cliff if Timmor weren’t there to share it with him.

“Someone has taken you to Asshai, Ser Podrick,” said Luras, bringing Podrick back to himself.

“What? No. I was just…” He didn’t know how to finish the thought.

“Yes, you were,” Luras said cheekily. “The men will be fine. Go and rest.” His tone was more sober now, more respectful. For all his jocularity and cheek, he knew when to be himself and when to be his lady’s man.

* * *

 The door to the hut was a beautifully crafted panel that slid smoothly in a track. The interior of the hut was done in rich red wood of many shades. The floor was darkest, the walls lighter. The posts of the bed were carved to resemble heavy flowering vines, arching up and inward to a point where they met and a ring held gauzy lengths of cloth that shrouded the bed itself. The walls ended before they reached the join with the incredibly high-pitched roof and the same gauze-like cloth made for windows that air could pass through. Outside of the room, the eaves of the roof dipped just below these strange windows, protecting them from rain. As warm as it was in this place, the room was cool and comfortable, the bed looked inviting and private with its shroud. 

Someone slid the door panel open.

“Luras said you wanted to see me.” It was Timmor.

“I…” Podrick stopped before saying that wasn’t true, quickly deducing what Luras had done.

Podrick strode to the sliding paneled door, closing it silently. Timmor looked alarmed for a moment. Podrick, quelled Timmor’s concern, pushing him towards the bed.

It had been too long, and his need was too great. Honor be damned. Clothing flew to the floor without either saying another word. Podrick was painfully hard, and as soon as Timmor’s pants came away it was apparent he was in a similar state. Timmor took a second to find an entry through the gauze curtains around the bed and crawled in, a smile stretching across his face.

He was so beautiful. The blond boy on the ship didn’t hold a candle to him, his Timmor the Red.

Timmor pulled him down onto him, seeking his kiss, wrapping his legs around Podrick. The heat of his body, the sense of breathing him in, as slight as he was, as prefect as he was, he was always eager to please, to drown in Podrick’s kisses, to weave his fingers through Podrick’s hair, to pull him tighter to him. He always wanted more, deeper, harder. Podrick sometimes lost himself in Timmor’s permissive eagerness, worrying it had been too much, but it was never the case. They’d fall asleep and in the wee hours Podrick would waken to the heat of Timmor's mouth taking in his manhood. Who could complain over such things?

They had nothing at hand to make the moment easier, but Podrick was leaking copiously enough not to need additional lubrication. Timmor’s head tipped back, his mouth slack, his eyes rolling upward.

“The god’s save me,” Timmor whispered, clutching Podrick’s buttocks, pulling him in.

There was no lasting this fury. Podrick came almost immediately, and Timmor followed within seconds, the volume of seed arcing from his cock, hitting his chest and stomach, was startling. He must have gone the entire voyage without once touching himself. It was the only explanation.

Podrick made to withdraw, but Timmor held him in place with his legs.

“Tell me you love me,” he said.

“Always,” replied Podrick.

Timmor gave him a reproachful look.

“All right, all right. I love you."

   Podrick kissed him, slow and deep, settling into a crouch, knowing that Timmor loved nothing more than for Podrick to remain fully sheathed within him for as long as he could. With the explosive need to fuck now tended to, Podrick took the opportunity, time, and care to make love to Timmor, to kiss him in all the places he loved to be kissed, to hold him tightly and gently rock against him, still inside of him, Timmor purring like a cat.

   Timmor gently pushed him up, but not off. He said he loved looking at Podrick, naked and with him in this most intimate way. He had said that Podrick was beautiful, that he loved his eyes and his smile and his belly, and after months of saying _thank you_ , but not really believing it was true, one night it sank in that maybe it was true, for Timmor, that he really was beautiful to him. Podrick had cried that night and Timmor had held him, saying nothing but _I love you_ , over and over again. After that night, Podrick enjoyed Timmor’s gaze upon him. He struck comic poses, flexing muscles, pulling faces, rubbing his round belly, all to Timmor’s delight.

Podrick thrust gently against Timmor, his cock having found new life in just minutes.

“Yes, yes. Please, yes,” Timmor sighed.

It lasted longer this time, eased by having already spent within him. Podrick pulled him up so that Timmor straddled him, clumsily getting his legs out from under himself so that Timmor could ride him completely. He let him take control of the pace, lifting slowly, almost completely, sinking down again as deeply as he could.  When the moment came, it was harder, sharper, and deeper than the first orgasm. It made the room spin, or maybe he was just breathing too hard. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it was Timmor’s beautiful smile looking down on him, his auburn curls that had lightened to a fiery red on the voyage wet against his forehead, that skin, so perfect and alabaster, made all the more beautiful by the shower of freckles along his shoulders.  

“You didn’t come this time,” Podrick noted with concern.

“The first one had me seeing stars, Podrick. This one was for you. I felt your need was not finished.” He chuckled and Podrick felt it through his body, around his cock.

To feel someone’s laugh from the inside. What a thing.


	6. Timmor

 Lady Brienne sent for Podrick some time after they had settled into the comfortable embrace of the bed.Timmor was loathe to let him go, Podrick’s breath against the nape of neck only just having shifted to the slow, regular rhythm of sleep.But Lady Brienne’s summons was not to be ignored.Podrick dressed quickly, giving Timmor a last, deep kiss before sliding the panel to the room open and slipping out.Timmor lazed in the bed, one outstretched arm reaching to the spot where Podrick had lain just minutes before, still warm, smelling of him.He tried to doze, but sleep would not come.Instead he dressed and set out to explore this place of such wonderful colors, smells, and sounds.

Luras was outside the hut speaking with a young woman.She was clearly amused with him, though it seemed they did not speak the same language.Or perhaps they did, but it wasn’t a language made of words.Luras was making his intentions clear enough, and truth be told, she was equally clear in her polite refusal. 

Timmor approached and when Luras looked his way, the young woman took the opportunity to disengage herself from his attentions with a comic eye-roll aimed at Timmor.He could not help but laugh in return.She joined another group of people walking past and was out of reach and surrounded by friends before Luras could turn back and salvage the moment.

“You are a cruel boy, Timmor.”Luras pretended annoyance with aplomb.“Did you see her?A goddess!” 

“Yes, she was very pretty.If it’s meant to be, you’ll see her again, but I think she was saying _no_ rather clearly.”

“Easy for you to say.I go out of my way so you and Podrick can spend time together and you laugh when my true love abandons me.” Luras was unequaled for dramatic flair. 

“And how long had you been trying to make your intentions known to her?” Timmor asked with cheek.

“Three whole minutes!A man does not need longer.”

“Three minutes sounds pathetic.” Timmor hadn’t meant the double entendre and only heard it as the words left his mouth.Luras barked a laugh and they were both quickly in tears, unable to breathe.

When he had recovered his breath, Timmor said, “I want to see the rest of the palace.Do you think that would be all right?”

“I will accompany you.Let us see what sights are in store!”

It wasn’t a castle at all.It was like a walled village.The palace was divided into separate buildings with open lawns connected by wide paths swept clean and lined with tall palms and flowering bushes.Their delicate, sweet scent perfumed every breeze.Above, immense trees stretched their great limbs from either side, dappling the path in gold coins of sunlight. From one tree to the next, large blue birds with white and yellow streaks on their wings soared.They looked like tiny dragons with heavy curved beaks, squawking loudly. It was as much an open park as a palace and all of it beautifully manicured.

“Do you think Lady Brienne will strike a good deal with the prince?” Timmor asked as they strolled a shaded path.

“Can you imagine any other outcome?”

“My lady is a warrior, not a merchant.”

“Lady Brienne is a woman of many talents, Timmor.Never doubt it.”

Floating on the breeze came the unmistakable sound of sparring.They looked at one another, each raising an interested eyebrow.They followed the sound to a stone archway that gave onto a large round yard paved in slate.

She was tall. So tall. Her skin was midnight. Her opponent was dark of skin as well, but he was not nearly as dark as she, more like Luras with his olive skin. Swords like none Timmor had ever seen. Thin, long, wicked needles. And they were real, not wooden.

They were like shadow cats circling one another. She leapt and thrust. He ducked and spun out of the way. She came again, circling around with impossible grace. Their thin swords met with a high, shimmering ring and they both laughed at the near hit and the last-second parry. She leapt again, feet pointed, every muscle distinct and defined. The man leaned away, but she anticipated his move and hit him in the chest with the flat of her blade.

“ _Tesha!_ ” she cried triumphantly.

The man breathed heavily, sweat pouring off him.He looked their way. “We have an audience, Odé.” The man had a Braavosi accent.

The woman turned, sword at the ready, then relaxed.She eyed them both, taking in the situation.

“The Westerosi from Tarth.”Her accent was almost impenetrable.

“Timmor, my lady,” he responded, over-pronouncing his name.

She laughed deeply, showing beautiful white teeth. “I am no one’s lady, Tima of Westeros.Odé.Just Odé.”She gestured to the man. “This is Marco of Braavos.” 

In perfect sync they each brought their respective swords to their faces in a kind of salute that ended in a downward flourish of their swords and an elegant bow.

Timmor was at a loss and simply bowed in returned.

Marco of Braavos laughed softly. “Odé, you have bewitched the poor boy.”

She rolled her eyes at him and walked to a rack against the far wall where she carefully cleaned and placed her weapon with a number of others.

“I have never seen sword practice like that,” said Timmor. “It was beautiful.”

“It is the water dance, fire boy.”Marco smiled at Timmor, looking at his hair. 

“How do you move like that?”

“Ah, Tima, it is work and practice and dedication,” Odé walked back.She looked so powerful, like she could jump to the top of the surrounding wall in a single silent pounce.She lifted one of his arms, strolled around him, prodded and squeezed dispassionately.“You are small, but your body is strong, Tima.Lady Brienne trains her men well.”

“Ser Podrick.Lady Brienne trains with the men, as does the man at arms, but Ser Podrick is my partner.” 

“Your _sheré_?” she said.

“What does that mean, _sheré_?”

“ _Sheré_ is…”Marco cut her off with a few gentle words in the Islander language.

“Ah, yes,” she said.“Westerosi are strange about this.”

Timmor was confused, unsure of what had just transpired, what had been said. 

“You can spar with Westerosi swords?” Odé asked.

“Yes,” he answered, still feeling at a disadvantage. 

“Maybe you would like to dance with us tomorrow?”Marcos asked. 

“If my lady permits, I should love to.”In truth, what he loved was the look of them.Exotic, brash, and elegantly refined in a way that made him deeply envious. 

“Tomorrow, then, fire boy.We start early,”Marcos said.He and Odé left the large space where they had been sparring, walking back down the sun dappled path, speaking to one another in the sonorously rich speech of the Summer Islanders. 

Excitement welled within him and a deep desire to find Podrick.To tell him of his strange encounter with these two remarkable people.

“Do you think Lady Brienne will permit it?” he asked Luras. 

It was only then that he realized Luras hadn’t spoken a word in the entire exchange.He had been too taken with the pair to even notice Luras’s slack-jawed silence.

“I will do everything in my power to assure that you can come and train with them tomorrow, Timmor.You and I both.” His voice was far away, his eyes still following Marco and Odé as they shrank down the path. 

   "Do you ever stop?" Timmor asked.

   Luras regarded him with unexpected sobriety. "Tonight, when you are in Podrick's arms, ask yourself, if you did not have him, would you stop?"

* * *

 Later in the day, they had an early dinner in an open pavilion adjacent to where they were sleeping.Lady Brienne assured the men that things had gone well with the prince today and that tomorrow there would be a feast, though the food that was brought to the pavilion looked like feast enough to Timmor.

“You should have seen her, Podrick.So tall!They were sparring with these thin swords and it was nothing like what we do or how we train.” He’d been gushing over their dinner for ten minutes, repeating himself without realizing it.

“You say the man was Braavosi?”Lady Brienne asked.

“Yes, my lady.Odé introduced him as such.His name is Marco,” he replied.

“Water dancing,” she said with confidence.“It’s traditional in Braavos.I’ve seen Arya Stark fight that way.Ser Podrick saw her too.For someone lithe and fine of bone, it’s a very effective style.Arya impressed me greatly.”She pulled apart a roast bird and set to cleaning every bone.

“If it please my lady, I was invited to join them tomorrow to spar.I would very much like to.”

“Of course.Perhaps Ser Podrick will accompany you.”

Podrick lifted his brows in agreement, his mouth full of his own roast bird.

“Thank you, my lady. Have you really seen Arya fight that way, Podrick?”

He wiped his mouth and swallowed.“I have, more than once.Arya Stark is not someone you want pointing a sword at you.”

“No, she is not,” added Lady Brienne.She and Podrick shared a glance. 

Timmor noticed Luras watching the exchange.He looked a bit pitiful.It had happened faster than he had expected and Timmor could see him trying to think of a way to include himself that did not seem inappropriate.

“My lady, if it please, Luras was also asked to join.”Timmor tried his best to make it sound casual.

“Then he shall accompany you instead.Ser Podrick, you and Ser Randel will accompany me tomorrow.Prince Abioye and I have come to a tentative agreement, but the particulars and future arrangements must still be finessed.He should come to know you better, Podrick.”

Podrick went red.Timmor understood what his lady meant.He knew of the inheritance Lady Brienne had secured for him.The entire subject made Podrick uncomfortable.He didn’t know how to engage it.Timmor left it alone.Podrick would find a way eventually to accept who he had become.Timmor caught himself watching Podrick, when Podrick glanced at him.He broke it off and turned back to Luras.

“Are you still game, Luras?”

“I am at your service, Timmor, and ever grateful for my lady’s generosity.”He winked at Timmor and said nothing more.


	7. Prince Abioye

 

Prince Abioye entered the meeting chamber to find Lady Brienne and her two men, each down on one knee, their heads bowed. No prince in the Summer Isles would do such a thing, but it was easier to let the Westerosi show respect in their own way than to explain why this custom seemed strange and discomforting to him. Theirs was a culture of dominance and servitude, of war and death. To bow before a prince was to debase oneself and it implied trust that no ill would befall them in this vulnerable position. He knew this, but still it unnerved him.

She was so ugly, this woman with her yellow hair and a face that not even a man could wear and call handsome. That intrigued Abioye. The things she must have done, must be capable of doing, to hold a position such as hers, to have these two strong men at her side who deferred to her in all things as more lord than lady.

His advisor Mosi was already sat next to the prince’s place on the dais. The old man was eyeing Lady Brienne with a lost expression on his face, impossible to know what was turning there behind his eyes.

Abioye cleared his throat, breaking Mosi’s trance. Lady Brienne and her men did not flinch. 

“My lady, please sit. Be at ease,” he said.

Chairs of woven rattan were quickly brought forward and the three sat. Abioye noticed a furtive glance between Lady Brienne and the younger of her two men. Podrick, his name was. He remembered the young man’s notable silence and solemn eyes yesterday.

“Prince Abioye, have you had an opportunity to consider my proposal from yesterday?” Lady Brienne asked.

“I have,” he replied. She wasted no time on pleasantries, which in truth was to his preference. “When do you think you could bring a second shipment of the same amount”

“By this same time next year. But it would be more. At least another ship’s worth. Perhaps two. As I made mention yesterday, Prince Abioye, this first expedition was… conservative. My hope remains that we can establish an agreement that is more longterm.” She was carefully metering out her words, holding on to what she hoped was an advantage.

He eyed her carefully, waiting to see if her composure slipped. If anything, her brow set into a near scowl. As ugly as she was, he could not deny that he liked her greatly. Westerosi ships were nothing new at Lotus Point, nor their gruff, hairy traders.But a lady of the realms of snow, to come herself to treat with him directly, this was exceptional. It spoke not only of respect, but of need on her part as well. Either winter had made her desperate; else, she had larger, more ambitious plans in mind. Either way, he could ply the arrangement to his advantage, and that sat well with him.

He held his hand out to Mosi, who passed him a large sheet of papyrus paper. A small table was placed before Lady Brienne. Abioye spread the papyrus on the table, beckoning Brienne to inspect what was shown. She came forward, curious and looked.

The papyrus showed a three-tiered sketch of a temple.

“Prince Abioye, marble of this kind is not…” she began.

“Yes, yes. It would be impractical and take longer than I wish to wait. The temple you see here is nearly complete. It lies north of the palace and will be the monument to my reign. I imagine using your marble to line this chamber and this chamber.” He indicated the two large sections of the temple. “For this purpose, I think your marble would be exceptional, no?”

“I should think so, yes.” One side of her mouth drew up into a near grin. “What do I get in return, Prince Abioye?”

“Your ships will return with as much grain, spices, and other items as they can hold. We have root vegetables of which you may not be aware, very nutritious and which keep very well over long periods. With winter come to Westeros, such things will be of value, I think. But it will take some time to gather. Perhaps a month. If these terms are agreeable to you, you and your men will be my honored guests here in the palace while the arrangements are gathered.”

She flashed her blue eyes up at him, the only part of her that could be regarded as attractive. Her nostrils were slightly flared, showing her emotion. He was offering a good deal and she knew it. Somewhere behind those eyes he could sense she was calculating the reason for the generosity. Her eyes narrowed when she saw that he had seen. She was a canny woman, yes.

“A friend in Westeros. A foot in the door, so to speak. We can be of service to you now, and when summer comes, you can be of service to me. Westeros is a vast land and has many riches. Who knows what opportunities will come to light after the thaw.” He spread his hands to gesture that this was all there was to it.

“You play the long game,” she said. Not a question, but a statement.

“As do you. Why else come in person?” he responded. “We do not raid. We do not steal. We do not make war in the sense that you know it, Lady Brienne. I think you came to Lotus Point to find friends and allies, and you came in good faith, with something to offer. It is clear that you understand honor. Accept my friendship. It will be of benefit to us both.”

He gave her the time she needed to think, to put her words carefully together, which he knew mattered to her greatly.

She put out her large, calloused hand, as any man would, to seal the agreement. Abioye took it heartily, returning her strong grip to show her that he took her exactly as she was, and nothing less.

“If it please, and in the spirit of a long friendship, I would have you know my heir.” She turned her head nodding to the quiet man who had not said so much as a word to this point. Abioye gestured for him to approach. The young man gave a furtive glance to the older man who accompanied Lady Brienne, who redirected the younger man’s attention back to Abioye.

“Ser Podrick,” Lady Brienne encouraged him forward.

He approached slowly, but found his courage somewhere between seat and dais. He straightened noticeably and then bowed somewhat stiffly.

“My prince,” he said, unsure what other other formality to give.

“Ser Podrick.” Abioye released Lady Brienne’s hand and took the young man’s. He glanced between the two. Heir? The age difference, or lack thereof, and the complete lack of resemblance said there was a story here. Time enough to learn it later. Better to make use of the awkward situation. “You have large shoes to fill, Ser Podrick, but I am sure you will be up to the task.”

Mosi took the opportunity to interject. “Perhaps Ser Podrick would be interested in working with myself and Issa?”

Abioye added, “Mosi and Issa will be collecting, accounting for, and ensuring the harvest of the goods for which your lady has traded.”

Just when Lady Brienne looked ready to speak on his behalf, Ser Podrick said, “However I may be of service to you and to my lady, I would be honored, Prince Abioye.” That seemed to satisfy Lady Brienne, whose continence relaxed some.

With the matter settled, Abioye gestured for food and refreshment to be brought in. Musicians entered and the air filled with the gentle tremble of harps.

The older man in Lady Brienne’s company said, “Prince Abioye, you said that you don’t make war? There are guards with impressive bows on the palace walls.”

“Slavers do not technically make war either, yet they are of no small concern to us,” Abioye dropped flatly.

“Many of my queen’s warriors were slaves that she freed in Essos,” said Ser Podrick.

“And some have returned home to us,” said Abioye. “Their stories are tragic and serve to strengthen our resolve to remain apart from the peoples of Westeros and Essos.”

Lady Brienne’s brow knit into confusion. “And yet…”

“Yes. And yet.” Abioye shrugged. “You impress me, Lady Brienne. You are not what I expected. The warrior maiden of Westeros is legend even here, so far from your lands. How you tamed the kingslayer, and are perhaps one yourself.”

“I am no kingslayer, Prince Abioye. Renly Baratheon fell at the hands of his brother, Stannis, who was kinslayer and kingslayer and coward to boot. Renly was killed through dark magic, a shadow sent to do the deed Stannis had not the honor to do himself, if any honor could be had from such a deed.” She took a long draught from her glass. “But if you thought this about me, if you thought I was a kingslayer, though I am not, I remain at a loss as to why you chose to see me, to hear me out.”

“What a people want is not necessarily what a person wants. Can a man not be curious? Can he not learn to see differently when exposed to a new truth?”

“I suppose,” she conceded begrudgingly. “One of my men was invited to train with a woman here in the palace. A woman who is a waterdancer. Another indulged curiosity?”

Abioye laughed. “Yes, you could say that. So you have met Odé?”

Again her expression relaxed. She seemed prone to this cycle of tension and release. Abioye could only imagine what she had gone through to make her this way, and what she was trying to achieve to make her continue on when others would have retired.

“Not in person, no,” she said. “But she made quite an impression on Ser Podrick’s squire, Timmor. He is with her today.”

“Then he will return to you in exhaustion, I fear. Odé is ruthless. Tell your man not to fall in love with her beauty. It will do him no good.”

“Little chance of that,” said Ser Podrick, blushing deeply.

 _Aha_ , this little family was stranger and more intriguing than Abioye had imagined. No wonder they set sail for such distant shores. Abioye took advantage of his position to brook an impertinence.

“He is your _sheré_?" Abioye asked directly to Ser Podrick.

“What is that?” the young knight asked.

“ _Sheré_ is a husband where there is no wife, but another husband.”

Lady Brienne nearly rose, a leopard prepared to pounce. A mother leopard, according to her own words, though this was clearly not her offspring. The older knight edged forward in his seat.

“Yes,” said the young man before anything else could transpire, his solemn eyes gone suddenly hard as dark pearls. “He is my _sheré_.” He pronounced the word poorly, but Abioye was impressed nonetheless. The quiet ones always surprise.

“Your man has heart,” Abioye said to Brienne, her face sliding from concern to surprise. “I begin to see more clearly.” His focus back on Ser Podrick, he said, “ _Sheré_ is not an ugly word, Ser Podrick, though I think in your own language the only words for such a thing may be ungenerous. No insult was meant.”

That a prince would apologize to a common man was not lost on Lady Brienne. She nodded for him to give a reply. The young knight looked to her for guidance, but it seemed she wished to see if her cub could stand on his own.

“I am not offended, Prince Abioye. Things are different where we live, where we come from. You are correct that the only words that come to mind in the common tongue are not kind words, but my lady has taught me that truth is the only coin a man should carry in his pocket.”

 _The boy says nothing for almost two days and then speaks like a philosopher._ No, they were nothing like Abioye had expected. Nothing at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we all know, comments are life! They are the fuel that keeps the writer motivated. If you've read this far, your impressions are most welcome! I'm not a glass sculpture. I won't break. I welcome constructive criticism. ;)


	8. Odé Qaxar

   He was there waiting when Odé arrived. The enthusiasm of the young and the uninitiated. She remembered when she too had that crack-of-dawn drive to train.

 _We’ll see how long it lasts_.

   Marco was not up yet. He would likely not arrive for at least another hour or so, but she hoped he didn’t take as long as that. The other man, the Dornishman, was going to be a handful and she wanted to spare both him and herself the hassle of directing his attention elsewhere. Perhaps Marco would do her the kindness of scaring him off or, conversely, flirting with him and maybe luring him to bed. Either way was fine with her, so long as she didn’t have to deal with him.

   “I did not expect two students,” she said eyeing the Dornishman from the corner of her eye.

   “I was asked to accompany young Timmor,” the man replied. “For his protection. I will remain out of your way, I promise.”

   “For his protection? We are in my prince’s palace. He has nothing to fear here.” Odé stepped to the man, imposing on his personal space. He took a small step back.

 _One point for me_ , she thought.

   “Nonetheless.” He bowed dramatically. The Dornish were consummate actors. She would have fun watching him and Marco try to upstage one another.

   She turned to the redheaded young man. _Tima_ , the pale nocturnal gecko with the green and gold eyes. She had decided on the name as soon as she heard his introduction. Perhaps he would live up to it, perhaps not.

   “Come,” she said to him, waving for him to follow. She took down one of the sparring blades and gave it to him.

   “It feels like nothing,” he said, waving it about.

   “That is why you will use _this_ for now,” she replied, handing him a practice dowel and taking the sword.

   His face immediately set into a childish look of disappointment.

   “You know how to use a Westerosi cleaver.” She put up her hand to stay his objection then placed the real sword back on the rack. “Compared to these, it’s a cleaver, a brutish tool, but at least you know its weight, its presence. A waterdancer’s sword will slice and pierce just as well, or better, but like you say, it feels like nothing in your hand. Before I let you wave one around me, you must learn to accept its feel as _something_ , not nothing. Take off your sandals and leave them here.” She took up another dowel and turned from him without waiting to let her words sink in and walked to the far end of the sparring arena. When she turned back around, to his credit, he was sitting quietly removing his sandals. Odé had complained to Marco when he told her to remove her footwear on her first day. He piled the long laces of the sandals with care so as not to touch the ground, clean as it was. She understood. No one had to tell her who had made those sandals.

   “See the raised line of stones?” She gestured to the smooth run of stones that were higher than the rest by about an inch. “Stand there.”

   He froze, seemingly unsure what to do.

   “Like this. Back foot pointed to the side, front foot forward.” She took her position on the stone strip. “Now you. Bend your legs. Good. More weight on the back leg.”

   “This feels sideways,” he said, with his brow drawn. She saw a thought pass across his face and then he said, “No shield.” It was a statement, a realization, not a question.

   “No shield. We are not rams in the field running at one another, nor are we bulls. You have learned to batter your opponent into submission. Is that what you saw yesterday, when Marco was here?”

   “No,” he said. “You looked like shadowcats.”

   “And cats always land on their feet, no?”

   “Yes,” he replied.

   She came towards him, her dowel forward. He immediately fell to the side, off the stones, nearly stumbling.

   “Dead,” Odé said flatly. “Watch my feet. When I come to you, first one foot then the other, backwards, quickly. You try.”

   “This is not what you were doing yesterday,” he said.

   Deep laughter welled from within her. She had said those exact same words to Marco, so she gave him the same reply she had received. “Just as running is not walking and walking is not crawling, no it is not.”

   “He _does_ know how to walk,” said the Dornishman, looking for an entry into the conversation, thinking himself clever.

   She turned a hard eye on him. “Tima may walk the length and breadth of Westeros, but here he is a baby at the tit. If he has the discipline and the will, perhaps I can show him to walk. Now, we learn to crawl.”

   “I have much to learn, my lady. I pray you will have patience with me,” said Timmor.

   “ _Tima_ has manners,” she said, still eyeing the Dornishman. He bowed his head with an embarrassed smile, raising a hand in concession.

   “More than you did, Odé.” Marco entered the sparring arena squeezing the bridge of his nose. It must have been a long night of drinking. He looked pallid and bedraggled.

   “Marco, you live,” she said.

   “Live is a strong word, Odé. Let us say I am not dead.” He placed fingertips delicately to one temple.

   “Perhaps today is not a day for sparring, Marco. A soak in the river might soothe your head.”

   “No, I am fine,” he lied.

   “If you hadn’t tried to outdrink the prince last night, you would be fine, but you did, so you’re not.”

   She flashed her eyes at him, then flicked them over to the Dornishman. It took Marco a second to put the message together.

   “Dornishman, join me. I promise the river is more inviting than the heat of the arena or the edge of Odé’s tongue,” said Marco.

   “My lady asked me to accompany Timmor today.” There was dismay and disappointment in his voice.

   “There is no safer place in all of Lotus Point than beneath Odé’s wing, I assure you.” Marco gestured to the man to follow, giving him a face of understood commiseration.

   “I will be fine, Luras. Another time, perhaps,” Timmor said. Odé was grateful for his cooperation.

   The Dornishman left reluctantly, Marco assuring him there would be beautiful sights at the river, his tone leaving no doubt as to the nature of those sights.

   When they were well gone, Timmor said, “I apologize for my friend if he made you uncomfortable.”

   “Men are men, Tima. They are what they are.” She sighed.

   His face betrayed an insult taken. “Luras is a good man. He’s just lonely.”

   “Is he a man you would trust with your life?” she asked, expecting that to be the end of it.

   “I _owe_ him my life. He saved me from my brother’s hands.”

   “Your brother?”

   “It’s a long story, but yes. He saved me and befriended me when others would not. Again, I apologize if he made you uncomfortable. I promised him I would find a way for him to come today, and I did. If anyone is to blame, it’s me.”

   Timmor bowed slightly and held it. He was waiting for her forgiveness.

   “There is no one to blame, Tima. And perhaps not all men are the same,” she conceded, but was not speaking of Luras. “Now come. Take your stance again. You still wish to train?”

   “Of course, my lady.”

   “Good, now come towards me as you saw me do earlier, but slowly. Pay attention to your feet and stay on the stones.”

   His stamina lasted much longer than she expected, and he was a quick and obedient study. His eyes were ever on her, her legs, her feet, her arms, her shoulders, but never in the way Luras had looked at her. Her student seemed blind to whatever charms she held for other men. For that, she was grateful.

   The sundial near the fountain in the arena showed nearly two hours past noon. She was far from exhausted but there is only so much the mind can take in, even when the body can continue. Form was everything in waterdancing, and he would need to repeat what she had shown him many times for it to become natural, for him to learn to know where his own body was, rather than the focus he had learned on the opponent’s sword. The Westerosi way of battle was not refined or elegant in the least, but it was clear that his teachers had been serious and demanding. Already his form was better than hers had been after a week in the arena with Marco. She had been much less disciplined in her first days, thinking Marco’s flair would come easily to her. How wrong she had been. Still, imitation was not the same as learning. Tomorrow would prove if what he had learned today would stay with him.

   “I am hungry,” she said to him, doubting he would admit to hunger himself. “Food, yes?”

   “Are we done for today?”

   “Yes,” she said returning the practice dowel to the rack. “You have done well.”

   His smile was huge and boyish.

   “For your first day,” she tempered, followed by a sideways smile of her own when he deflated.

   He sat on the floor to lace his sandals.

   “Those are nice,” she said.

   “A man named Talíb gave them to me when we arrived.” He finished the last lace and stood. “He has many beautiful things.”

   “Yes,” she answered softly. “He does.”

   “Do you know him?”

   “Talíb is my father.”


	9. Podrick

 

   Mosi’s obsequiousness was discomforting, though there was nothing Podrick could say against him.Nothing.Mosi was perfectly punctilious.Podrick tried to put it out of his mind as his own failing, unaccustomed to this deference.He was a knight in his lady’s service, and her heir.Mosi was just an advisor to the prince.No title to speak of.It did not seem they had titles other than their royals.Perhaps it was simply his due.For his lady’s sake, he tried to hold himself correct and accept it.

   They road a cart pulled by small stout horses out from the palace and into the forest.Mosi pointed out the spires of the temple the prince had shown them, just visible above the canopy, rising into hills in the northeast.They road southwest through the trees where Mosi made great show of his knowledge of flora and horticulture.He pointed out different flowers, bushes, vines and things he called bromeliads.Each had a use and a purpose.Podrick felt that he was being tested, and would likely fail since there was little chance he would remember much of Mosi’s observations.He tried to focus on the things that sounded like they could be of value for trade in the future.

   “Does it cloud the mind?” he asked when Mosi pointed out a heavy ribbonlike vine in the canopy, the sap of which was good for pain.

   “Indeed.Similar to your milk of the poppy.One must be judicious, though a weak version of it is brewed for temple celebrations.The people enjoy it greatly, but only on such occasions,” Mosi assured.

   “Understood,” replied Podrick.

   “And do not think to take it directly from the vine.It is deadly in its raw form.” Mosi eyed him queerly, as if his curiosity had meant something more.

   “I am not a man given to vice,” he said flatly.

   “No, no.I imagine not.But it would be my fault if some tragedy befell you if I failed to inform you of the nature of the plant.” The tone in Mosi’s voice still left the impression in Podrick’s own mind that he was lying. 

   The trees thinned and they came to a clearing.Orderly rows of a low shrub with bright green, palm-shaped leaves filled the large clearing.A few men and woman worked the field, clearing away unwanted plants growing between the shrubs. 

   “What is this?” Podrick asked.

   Issa answered, “Sweet cassava.There are several kinds.It is the root that is of value.There is also a bitter cassava, but it must be processed before turning it into flour, else it is toxic, but the sweet root can be boiled and eaten like potato once peeled.We will show you how to handle it and cook it.The flour has many uses, from bread to sweets.This is just one of several crops we will see today, for which Lady Brienne has traded.”

   “I am no cook, to be sure,” said Podrick. “Perhaps there is someone in the prince’s service who might come back with us, someone who is skilled and can serve as a teacher.”

   Issa bowed her head. “That is a wise idea, Ser Podrick.”

   “There are many more fields to see,” said Mosi, seemingly impatient that the point of attention had shifted from him to Issa. 

   Issa ignored Mosi’s impatience, gesturing Podrick over to a tree.Two men were digging up the root of a vine that curled up the tree.It was much larger than he would have expected for a vine.He wrinkled his nose at the misshapen mass of dirt and clay.

   Issa smiled.“That is called _ñame_.The large part of the root is called the mother.You don’t eat at that part.Underneath, if you dig carefully, you will find the part that is eaten.” 

   They watched the men excavate until they came to a single fat root growing from the larger mass.This was carefully separated and they reburied the upper portion.One of the men cleaned the root in a bucket of water and brought it for them to see.

   “If you are careful with the mother, it will give this root time and time again,” she said.

   “Is this how the other plant grows too?” Podrick asked her, pointing back at the cassava.

   “No.The cassava is different.When it is time to harvest, the whole plant is taken up and there are several large roots to each plant, thinner and longer than this _ñame_. There is no mother, but the stem can be cut, stripped, and replanted and another plant will grow.The cycle continues.”

   “How many times can you replant?” he asked.

   “Three, maybe four times.Then the soil must rest.The farmers plant manure and leaves from the forest instead, to feed the soil.”She waved him back to the cart where Mosi waited impatiently. 

   “Do you only grow roots?” Podrick asked.

   “Not at all. There are many different crops and some that cannot be cultivated but must be picked from the wild.But Lady Brienne wishes to take things that will store for a long time.” She paused. “Is the winter very cold in Tarth?”

   “Not yet, no,” he said. “You wouldn’t think it was winter at all, but I’ve seen and felt the cold.Westeros stretches far to the north.The lands just south of where the wall once stood are always cold, and north of that is frozen nearly all year ‘round.”

   “Is it true what they say, that the dead walk in Westeros?”

   “Not anymore.The Night King is destroyed. The dead are just dead now.”

   “Did you see them, the dead?Did you fight them?” asked Mosi, drawn into the story.

   “I did.” _And the living_ , thought Podrick. There was no way to know which was worse.The wights had been monsters shambling from every direction, but they were thoughtless, mindless animals.The living were people.Logically he knew the wights had once been people too, with families, but when you saw them, when they opened their rotted maws and reached for your with nothing but bone, it didn’t register. 

   “Is that how you came to be a knight?” she asked.

   As they wound their way from one field to the next, from one kind of crop to the next, Podrick told her of how he came to be in Lady Brienne’s company.He told her of his time with Tyrion Lannister, who he had assumed dead, only to appear as if by magic with Daenerys Stormborn come across the sea with her dragons and vast army.He told it poorly, he was sure, but Issa listened and asked many questions.She made no assumptions or judgements, only ever seeking clarification.He told as much as he remembered and tried to be kind as well as truthful.

   Mosi informed that they would soon come to the ocean on the southern side of the island where he would collect fish for the palace kitchens.

   “Can you swim, Ser Podrick?” Issa asked.

   “I can,” he answered hesitantly.

   “The beach we approach is very pleasant.It is a favorite place to bathe.Will you join me?Mosi will be some time haggling with the fishmongers.” 

   Bathing in the ocean had never occurred to Podrick.As clear and blue as the waters around Tarth were, it was ice cold and the shore was a tumble of jagged boulders and rocks.It was for looking at and sailing on, not swimming in.Still he nodded agreement.The look on Issa’s face of pleased anticipation was his only assurance that it would be different here. 

   It was indeed different. 

   The dirt path became a small road paved with stone as they approached the water.The iodine smell of the sea was heavy in the air, but somehow different to how it smelled at home.It was richer here.Earthier.The path ended in sand.Mosi stopped the cart just before the stones gave out, taking his leave down a trail through the trees.Issa and Podrick continued on. 

   It wasn’t as though Podrick had never seen a beach.He’d seen them, came ashore through them.But he’d never seen a beach like this.It stretched in both directions until it faded out in a hazy shimmer, and it was broad from water to tree line.Palms curved out from the edge of the forest, their crowns green and wide fare overhead.

   The sand was as clean and clear as snow, and soft as sugar.He took a handful and let it pour out through his fingers, fine and soothing. 

   Issa was removing her clothes.Podrick blanched.She showed not a shred of concern for her nakedness.

   “Come on,” she said. “You surely aren’t going to go in with all that on.” She nodded up and down, indicating his clothing, giving him a _lets not be silly_ smile. 

   He sighed and got out of his boots, his leathers, his shirt, then finally his pants.The sand was hot under his feet.Then it very hot.He ran the last distance to the water more to escape the burning sand than for any shame of being naked here with this woman.Where the sand suddenly darkened and firmed from water, it also soothed with blessed coolness.But not cold.The water was barely cooler than his skin.Issa was in to her waist when she turned and beckoned him to follow.It was then Podrick noticed there were other bathers.A few men and women with their children.The children ran up and down the water’s edge playing simple children’s chasing games, bright with laughter.Podrick continued to wade out to where Issa was, her small high breasts just breaking the surface.Podrick could see his own feet perfectly, the water was so clear and clean.

   “Westerosi men are supposed to be small down there.” Issa flicked her eyes to what she meant, below the water yet clearly visible. “It seems not all tales one hears are to be believed.”

   Even with the sun as fierce as it was, still he felt himself flame red in the cheeks.How did one respond to that?He stared at her realizing he could not determine her age.She could be his age, or ten years his senior.It was hard to say. She saved him the effort of responding.

   “I’m sorry, Ser Podrick. The tales we hear of knights from Westeros paint a certain image of what they are like, and you are not like that at all. I never thought to meet a shy knight.” She let her feet come away from the bottom and floated. “Tell me how you met Timmor.From what I know of your land, that must certainly be an interesting story, and now Mosi is not here to sneer.”

   “Sneer? The prince said such things don’t matter to your people.” Podrick felt immediately defensive.

   “Truly, it doesn’t, Ser Podrick.Mosi makes an art and a game of sneering.Trust me, I’ve known him my whole life.We’re cousins.” Her eyes looked up at him, endearing. 

   Podrick tipped under the water to wet his hair, the sudden silence gave him a second to think. He could clearly see Issa next to him, her body as trim and hard as all the Islanders. _Luras was right, they are a handsome people_ , he thought.He came back up, pushing his hair back, feeling refreshed.She’d done the same, her short hair holding barely any water, unlike his own which weighed heavy and lank now.

   “How do you speak the common tongue so well?” Podrick asked, sputtering water from his face.

   “I was educated at the prince’s side.Prince Abioye is also my cousin.Mara as well.We are all family.If you don’t feel comfortable telling me about Timmor, that’s fine, Ser Podrick.”

   After a moment he said, “We were on our way home from King’s Landing.My lady had just discovered that her father had died at sea, killed in battle.” He told her all of it.Unlike before, this story seemed to want telling.It tumbled from him in more detail than he would ever have thought possible or probable from himself. How they had taken rest at Bronzegate and he had seen the little redhead with the pretty eyes hiding in the welcoming party. How he had come to share a room with him, and then a bed. How Lady Brienne saw that the boy was lost there, and took him to foster, made him Podrick’s squire, sanctioned their love without judgement. He told her of endless days of training, watching Timmor grow strong and sure.He told her of the kidnapping at the hands of Timmor’s brother Toryen, of how the light had gone out of his life at the thought he would never see him again, of how his lady had risked life and limb, honor and name, to rescue him.

   Issa was grave and attentive.She said nothing this time, asked no questions.She just listened.The story spilled and spilled.When it was done they were both silent.There was nothing but the sound of waves hissing against the sand. 

   “The water has a way of freeing us,” she said.

   “Indeed,” replied Podrick with a quavering breath, unsure what to feel having told so much to someone who was, in fact, a stranger to him. 

   “I envy Timmor,” she admitted. “And you.To fight so hard and so long for the one you love, your _sheré_ , and for your lady. None of you share blood, yet clearly you are as much family as I am to the prince.”

   She reached and pressed a fingertip to Podrick’s shoulder.It left a pale oval mark in the otherwise reddened skin. 

   “We should go back and dress.You are burning, Ser Podrick, and neither Timmor nor Lady Brienne will thank me for returning you roasted by the sun.Thank you for entrusting me with your story.It was as interesting and heroic as I had hoped.”

   She swam back toward the shore.Podrick watched her dark form against the turquoise of the water, white sand in the distance, green forest behind, clear blue sky above.He had never told anyone that story.He had never had to. Everyone he now knew had either been there when it happened or could not be trusted.Telling her all of it, every detail, _was_ freeing.He felt high and also grounded.He wondered if she had contrived all of this, the water, the solitude, just to ask him that question.If so, he was grateful to her.

   She climbed up out of the water at the shore, looking for all the world like a goddess rising out of the sea.

   Podrick began to wade back.


	10. Brienne

 

   Timmor and Podrick returned to Brienne later in the day, the former talking an animated blue streak about his training with Odé, the latter with an alarming sunburn. Issa assured her that she had something to help with Podrick’s burn and that she would return shortly.

   She didn’t have the heart to stop Timmor’s ramblings, he was so keen and energetic. It was good to see the level of enthusiasm in him. In truth, he had been studious and dedicated in her efforts to train him with sword and shield, but she feared the boy’s slight size would always be his downfall. As a waterdancer, the shortcoming became a strength. She remembered Arya darting like a little spider, quick, nimble, flexing in ways that would surely have snapped anyone else’s spine in two. Weakness into strength, doubt into assurance. These concepts pleased Brienne greatly.

   Podrick, on the other hand, gave her worry. He seemed lost in thought and the redness of his forehead, nose, and neck spoke of an even worse burn to come. She hoped Issa would return with whatever she was bringing. Podrick shifted inside of his leathers, trying to shrink away from their weight. Timmor wore a light belted tunic he had acquired somewhere with Odé, along with the sandals Talíb had given him, otherwise barelegged. He had taken to Islander style with a quickness and it suited him.

   In a momentary lapse of Timmor’s endless soliloquy, she interrupted and said, “Podrick, perhaps we should find you something more like what Timmor is wearing. That burn looks uncomfortable. Something lighter would surely be better for the time being.”

   “Perhaps so, my lady. I doubt I will do it the same justice Timmor does, but it would be a relief.”

   “I will go, my lady,” said Timmor. “I have a purse full of coppers, three silvers, and a gold dragon. I will find him something splendid.” The look he gave Podrick was so tender and sweet that it gave her pause. Thinking on it, she had never seen Timmor more expressive, more alive than he was now.

   “Take Alren with you. He and Ser Podrick are nearly of a size. That should help. I wish to know what Ser Podrick saw today.” She waved Timmor away and pointed at Alren to accompany him, the latter nodding and took leave of the open complex where they had taken to congregating and sharing their meals.

   She turned back to Podrick. “You seem pensive. What do you have to report?”

   His attention snapped back to the present moment and he began to list off the crops they had seen, and the time it would take to bring the different harvests in. It all sounded very promising.

   “We traded for spices as well. No mention of that?” she asked.

   “Issa explained that most spices are not tended crops but are found in the wild. I will be joining her in the days to come to see how they are gathered and prepared,” he answered.

   “Good, good. I am pleased, Podrick.” She paused as his eyes went to the ground and his focus drifted. “Anything else?” she asked, her voice prodding.

   After a moment he said, “Issa asked me a good deal about us, about you, how we come to be in one another’s company. And about Timmor.”

   “Were you truthful?”

   “Always,” he said, and she noticed the way his eyes squinted, as though he had done some wrong.

   “Podrick,” she said, and then sighed through her nose. “We are in a different land with different customs and different ways. I ask that you always remember to honor our house and our name, but it seems there is an opportunity here for you to breathe a little more freely, more easily. Take your cues from our hosts, but be honest and true to yourself and Timmor. I think we have a great opportunity here to make friends and alliances, to improve the standing of Evenfall Hall. Honesty is not always a guaranty that you won’t be branded a liar, but lying surely carves it into stone.”

   “Issa was very kind today. She took me to the ocean where we bathed for a time in the water. That’s how I got so burned.” He touched his face gingerly.

   “The ocean?” she asked incredulously.

   “I know,” he said raising his hands to note his own disbelief. “It’s not like we have at home. It’s as warm as bathwater and clear and calm as glass. You can walk out for a great distance and it stays shallow. It was wonderful, really.”

   “Do you think you’ve made a friend today?” she asked.

   “I think so. I _hope_ so.” He looked her squarely in the eye and she felt assured he had indeed made a friend.

   ”Excellent. Continue in that vein. See what you can learn. Perhaps there are other ways we can strengthen our alliance.”

   “I will, my lady.”

   Issa returned with a bundle of long, thick leaves that tapered to a point. She was accompanied by another woman, much taller than her.

   “Ser Podrick, Lady Brienne,” she greeted. “Ser Podrick, this is aloe. Break the leaves open and the clear substance inside can be applied to the skin. It is very soothing.” She took one and showed him how to split the plant to reveal a clear, almost gelatinous interior. He smiled his thanks to her.

   “Lady Brienne, this is Odé Qaxar. She wished to meet you and tell you of her day with your man Timmor.” Issa made a small bow and left.

   Brienne looked the tall woman up and down. She was indeed impressive.

   “Timmor has spent nearly an hour recounting his day with you, Odé.” Brienne stood and put out her hand. The other woman looked at it strangely then took it in a strong grip.

   “Lady Brienne of Tarth,” said Odé. “The warrior maid. I have looked forward to meeting you since hearing of your arrival. I hope I have not been too forward having Timmor to spar today.” Her accent was much stronger than that of the other people she had met in the palace. Still, she was impressed at how well she spoke the common tongue.

   “Not at all. Idle hands are no man’s friend. He has gone to fetch some needed supplies, but to hear him speak, he is much taken with you. Did he do well?” she asked.

   “It is only the first day, but he has discipline and he is not afraid of a little pain. He learns fast. If it is his wish to continue, please know I will be happy to teach him.”

   That pleased Brienne greatly to hear. “I’m not sure how I can repay you. Fair work deserves fair pay.”

   Odé had a quizzical expression. “Lady Brienne, you are guests of the prince. It is my honor to extend the prince’s hospitality in any way I can.” She stepped close to Brienne and spoke in a more intimate volume. “Usually I am asked to entertain in ways that bore me to tears. If I can spend the day training your man Timmor, then you have done me a favor.”

   Brienne could not restrain the laugh that welled up at the woman’s candidness. She liked her instantly.

   “You don’t mind, do you, Ser Podrick?” Brienne asked him, realizing that perhaps she should have at least spoken with him first before being so free with his squire.

   “My lady, I do not think we could keep him from it,” said Podrick as he stood to properly greet the woman.

   “Ser Podrick,” she put out hand and gripped wrists with him. “Timmor spoke of you today. You have made my work easy. He is a good student.” She looked at his skin and said, “Westerosi burn easily. Do as Issa says with the aloe. I can show you where to pick it if you need more. Is your back burned as well?”

   Podrick nodded.

   “Timmor can help you with that,” she smiled.

   Podrick cleared his throat nervously and said, “Would you join us?”

   “Yes, please, join us,” Brienne insisted.

   She sat and pulled a trencher to her filling it with quick handfuls of meat, bread and something that looked like potato but wasn’t.

   “Did you like the beach?” she asked Podrick.

   “Well enough, yes,” he answered.

   “I’m surprised Mosi went to the trouble.He hates the beach,” she noted.

   “He went to bargain for fish from the fishmongers,” Podrick replied.

   “He hates fish more than he hates the beach,” she countered through a mouthful of bread.She shrugged as if to say there was no explaining it.

   “Issa said that she and Mosi and Mara are all the prince’s cousins,” Podrick said equally to Brienne and to Odé.

   “They are.As is my father.You met him when you arrived.Talíb.” The way she said it left a question hanging in the air. “My father is the eldest of them.He was to be prince, but Abioye challenged him for the throne.”

   Brienne exchanged a glance with Podrick. He raised his eyebrows indicating he had also caught the intrigue but did not know how to ask further. She left it lay for now.

   Brienne shifted the discussion back to swordsmanship, to training, to Timmor, and thus to safer, friendlier ground.


	11. Timmor

“I can’t believe you went swimming in the ocean. What were you thinking?” Timmor pried open one of the thick leaves Podrick had given him. The inside was translucent and gelatinous, slightly sticky and very slippery. He ran it across the length of Podrick’s upper back leaving a slick trail.

“Gods, that feels good.” Podrick sighed.

“I’m glad, but you haven’t answered my question.”

“We weren’t alone. There were other people in the water too, children even.” He shifted and lifted an arm where the crease was redder than the rest. Timmor passed the leaf slowly over this area.

“Your friend Odé made an impression on Lady Brienne,” said Podrick.

“Did she?”

“You know she did.” He turned to face Timmor. “I made a friend too today. Issa. She’s the one did this to me.”

Timmor laughed.

“You did it to yourself. You know better.” Timmor made to slap a deeply red shoulder and Podrick winced away, but it was only pretense. “I would never hurt you. Come here.” He split another of the leaves, the first one having gone dry across the wide expanse of Podrick’s back. The front of him was as burned as the back, to the top of his belly.

“We don’t have to hide here, you know,” Podrick said.

“What do you mean?” The leaf slid smoothly across Podrick’s wide, strong chest.

“It’s not like at home. They’re different here. Issa asked me about you and I told her everything.”

Timmor paused at that. Podrick’s hand rested against his, urging him to continue.

“I didn’t tell you last night. I didn’t know how. When we met with the prince, he guessed and you know I have no face for lying.”

“No, you certainly don’t.”

“It just came out. He asked if you were my _sheré_ , and I asked what that was. When he explained, Brienne nearly jumped from her chair and it was going to go badly, and it just came out.”

“Odé used that word the day I met her. I didn’t know what it meant,” said Timmor.

“You do now. It means this.” He gestured back and forth between them. “They don’t care.”

“How can they not care?”

“They just don’t. The prince seemed to think it was amusing that we cared at all.”

Timmor continued passing the leaf across Podrick’s skin. He nodded for him to continue.

“Issa and I were in the water, and it was wonderful. She asked, and I started talking and I couldn’t stop - until it was done, until I was done.” His voice quavered and there was a shimmer in his eyes.

“So, you were asked twice in two days?”

“Don’t ask me to explain it. If Odé used that word in front of you then maybe you were asked to and you didn’t know it.”

He thought about that for a moment. “Fair enough,” he said. “Funny that we didn’t know this about them already.”

“Not exactly campfire talk, now is it,” Podrick responded flatly.

“No, I guess not,” Timmor admitted.

Timmor snapped a smaller piece from another leaf to pass over Podrick’s face.

“You had a good day, it seems.” Podrick was trying to change the subject and Timmor was glad of the opportunity.

“I did.” He passed the bit of leaf over Podrick’s cheek, forcing him to close his eye. “I’ll be training with Odé regularly. You should come.”

“I don’t think it’s for me, Timmor.” He heard both meanings in Podrick’s voice. “And I’ll be with Issa and Mosi for most of the time. Now that Lady Brienne feels secure in the goods we are getting, we’ll begin unloading the ships tomorrow.”

“I can help with that,” Timmor offered.

“You should stay with Odé and train. When will you get another opportunity to train with a waterdancer?”

“That’s true.” He was done with the aloe leaves and Podrick was thoroughly covered. “Does it feel better?”

“Yes. The tightness is gone for now.” Podrick smiled. His cheeks red and glossy from the aloe.

Timmor leaned in and kissed him. Podrick accepted it willingly and fully, taking Timmor’s head into his hands, but then gently pushed him away.

“I’m all sticky, and uncomfortable,” he said.

“I just wanted to kiss you,” Timmor lied, and the stiffness he felt in Podrick’s pants said the desire was there as well. “We’re expected at the feast, anyway. Let your skin dry some and try on the tunic I got you. I’ll be outside.”

Podrick took his wrist. “I swear to you, we’re fine. Lady Brienne was there with the prince. She knows. Ask her.”

It did worry him, he couldn’t lie, but that wasn’t the reason for wanting to leave. He desired Podrick too much to remain. Within the fear of Podrick’s story there was also excitement, inexplicable and profound. He kissed Podrick again, to reassure him and left the hut. He headed immediately to the area behind the hut to let the stirring in his loins subside.

The voices of Luras and Alren passed and he trotted out to intercept them.

“What were you doing hiding there?” asked Alren when he came out from between the huts.

“Having a piss,” he said. “Are you heading to the pavilion now?”

“Where else?” said Luras. “My future wife will surely be in attendance.”

Timmor shook his head in disbelief. “You may have to look elsewhere for a wife, Luras.”

“You will put in a good word for me, surely.” Luras slung a brotherly arm around Timmor’s shoulder, pulling him in so tight he almost tripped.

“I did that already, Luras. It looks bleak,” Timmor said hesitantly.

“Bleak, he says,” said Alren. “See, you’re right where you started. Nothing lost.”

Luras ignored him. “What did she say?” he asked.

“Not really anything. She’s just rather focused on what she’s doing. I don’t think she’s looking for distraction,” Timmor answered truthfully.

“Distraction? I don’t offer distraction. I offer worship and obedience.” Luras was in full swing now.

“You spent the day with Marco. What did he say?” Timmor asked.

Luras sighed a stage sigh and slumped. “Much the same.”

“You try too hard,” said Alren, this time with less cheek.

The pavilion was well lit with many torches and additional tables had been brought. There were garlands of bright flowers strung everywhere and guests were already arriving. The pavilion itself had clearly been rearranged for the prince and his retinue. Timmor continued on with Luras and Alren to one of the lower tables, but Lady Brienne waved him over when she saw him.

“Where is Ser Podrick?” she asked.

“He will be along shortly, my lady. I was tending to his sunburn,” he said.

“Alren, go make sure he’s on his way. Timmor, come with me. I wish to introduce you to the prince.” She turned without waiting, and Timmor followed without question.

The prince sat at the highest table, to the back of the pavilion. With him were Mara and Issa, and an older man he assumed to be Mosi. A fourth chair remained empty directly to his left. Lady Brienne approached the raised table and bowed.

“Prince Abioye, if it please, I would present to you my ward Timmor Buckler, squire to Ser Podrick Payne.” She remained bowed until he acknowledged her request.

“Bring the boy forward.” The prince gestured for him to approach.

Lady Brienne stood aside so that Timmor could pass. Mara wore a green dress that left her shoulders bare. A wide collar necklace in silver and jade draped her chest and shoulders. Iridescent green plumes were arranged to imitate a tiara across her elaborately braided hair. Issa wore a lavender confection with a single huge amethyst at her neck. A fine net of silver and gold adorned her short hair. The prince was most resplendent of all. He was bare chested save for a collar necklace similar to Mara’s, but much wider and made of gold with a rainbow of different stones glinting in the torchlight. Timmor had already seen men with their hair set with feathers, but none so beautifully as the prince’s. Green, red, blue, and yellow feathers were arranged with exquisite artistry, giving the impression of wings rising at each side of the prince’s head.

Timmor felt like a pauper in his simple tunic of embroidered cotton that had seemed so fine to him just minutes ago.

 _Gods above, I’m gawping_ , he thought and quickly bowed.

The prince’s laughter was a rich baritone. “So you are the boy with flaming hair Odé has taken under her wing.”

“Yes, Prince Abioye,” he replied, straightening from his bow.

“You lasted the day, I understand. Few last more than an hour. Odé enjoys showing everyone how superfluous my guards are.” The prince waved a lazy hand to the guards posted around the pavilion.

“Thank you, my prince.” Timmor cringed at the upswing in his voice that made it sound like a question.

The prince laughed again. “A compliment, indeed, Timmor Buckler of House Tarth. It speaks to the discipline your lady instills in her men.” The prince’s attention had shifted to Lady Brienne who nodded a silent thank you.

“What is it like, where you are from?” the prince asked, his attention back on Timmor.

“We also come from an island, my prince, but it is made of rolling fields and sharp mountains. There are woods and forest, to be sure, but nothing like the jungles of your realm.”

“And your lady’s castle, does it compare to my palace?” The prince gestured broadly.

Timmor felt pinched between the need to respect and praise the prince’s palace and the same need to respect his lady’s home. “They are very different, my prince. My lady’s castle is tall and proud upon the edge of a cliff looking over sapphire waters. Its halls and courts are beautiful and secure. My lady is kind and thoughtful of the people in her care, just as I see you are with your people, my prince, who are very fine to look upon. Your palace is open to the blue sky and the great trees are your towers, the lawns are your courts, the flowers and birds and fountains are your carvings and regalia. It is wonderful. Magical. Everything is so open and alive. I have never seen so many colors, and so bright.” That seemed to please them all, save for the man he assumed to be Mosi, whose face remained impassive. Lady Brienne most of all swelled at the politesse he had shown.

“Lady Brienne, Ser Podrick may be your heir, but here stands your future diplomat! The boy has a gilded tongue, of this there can be no question. He is wasted as a squire.” Everyone laughed politely. Timmor was certain his cheeks matched his hair just now.

“You are too kind, my prince. The boy has many talents and he has certainly secured his future in my house.” She placed a hand into the small of his back.

Timmor heard his dismissal in the tone of her voice. He bowed deeply and made to leave.

“I will be interested to know how you fair in the coming days with Odé, young Timmor. Count on my presence.” The prince waved a formal dismissal. Timmor took two steps back then turned to leave the pavilion.

He was lightheaded. It had gone well, he was sure. He spotted Luras at a table with several other men.Jaran, the captain of the Ruby, Carden and Jeimes were engaged in animated pantomime intended to bridge the language barrier with Islanders who sat with them. The tones and looks on the faces of the Islanders said they found the men as amusing as the men found them. Timmor joined and a cup was placed before him and filled with something that smelled of sweet fruit and alcohol.

“Where is Ser Randel?” he asked Luras.

   It was Carden who replied. “Little Lord Buckler, you must have missed him in the pavilion during your audience with His Grace.” Carden was clearly drunk, which Timmor found alarming, especially as early as it was in the evening.

“He and Ser Podrick will dine with what passes for lords and ladies in this realm, though I have not met anyone with a title other than the prince,” said Jeimes.

“You don’t speak their language and, let us be honest, lords and ladies do not rank among your acquaintances at home either, Jeimes,” replied Luras.

“What would you know, Dornishman?” Jeimes snipped back.

“I know that Timmor here just had an audience with the prince and _you_ did not, nor does any such audience look forthcoming,” said Luras from behind his cup, which he then tipped back and emptied.

“The feast is only just started and you are all in your cups,” said Timmor disappointedly.

“And you haven’t had _any_ drink at all. Drink, drink!” Carden slammed his hand on the table louder than he had intended, grimacing at the unexpectedly loud sound. “Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted. “But so am I. It’s meant to be a feast and you’re worse than Ser Podrick in your piety. Pease in a pod, you are, and I don’t mean between the sheets, though I guess I do mean that too.” He let out a bawdy loud laugh that was taken up by the rest. Timmor conceded and drank from his cup. It was fruity and sweet and very strong. He placed the cup on the table far to his right where a young woman was seated. He glanced at her, shaking his head minutely. She took in the situation, understanding clear on her face, took a sip from the cup and deftly emptied the remainder into the grass without anyone noticing before passing it back to him.

 _Bless her_ , thought Timmor.

She rolled her eyes dramatically. _Men_ , she said without a word.

 _Men indeed_ , expressed Timmor with his own comic face.

Food came and went in several rounds. Roast birds, fish, some kind of stew that was both spicy and sweet and so delicious Timmor passed his fingers over the trencher to get every drop.

There was entertainment in the form of dancers and jugglers, and there was endless music. Trained monkeys came to the tables to request morsels of food and repaid the people with lewd gestures that had everyone in stitches. Toward the end of the evening acrobats with flaming swords did amazing feats of balance and tumbling, never once getting burned.

Both Jeimes and Carden had found company for the evening, and when the acrobats finished their display, Timmor turned to find Luras wandering off with a girl dressed in green and white. At least he would not be lonely tonight.

The feast thinned and people made their way to wherever they would sleep off the night’s intoxication. Timmor had kept his wits about him and had remained sober, but it was late and his limbs had grown heavy. The pretty girl who had been his accomplice in sobriety waved goodnight, a somewhat wistful look on her face. Timmor bowed a thank you but left before she could make a more direct overture. She had been kind and companionable, showing him which foods went together, and they had laughed together in delight at the night’s entertainment. He did not want to embarrass her with a complicated refusal in a language she did not speak.

Passing the pavilion, Podrick caught his eye, giving him a wink, nodding him on.

Laughter and the sounds of love play came from several of the huts he passed on the way to his own. He lit a candle from a torch outside to light the interior of the hut and he curled into the mattress.

* * *

 

The bed shifted and woke him. Podrick was sat on the edge undoing the sash that held his tunic closed. He stood to slip it over his head and lay it on a nearby chair. The candle had burned down a quarter of its length, its light making a valley of the deep curve of Podrick’s lower back that swelled into the expanse of his shoulders, still quite red from the sunburn. The cleft of Podrick’s ass was dark and inviting. Timmor was instantly aroused and it provoked an odd need to stretch. He imagined it made him look like a cheeky cat in the soft ripples and folds of the bed.

Podrick turned, the outline of his belly, broad chest, and the heavy weight of his partially erect cock silhouetted by the candlelight. He climbed into the bed, Timmor taking him into his arms. He was rewarded with Podrick’s soft lips, his penetrating tongue, his hand gripping Timmor’s sex tightly. He smelled and tasted of the fermented fruit juice that had been poured from endless flagons this night.

Timmor had fallen asleep quickly, but he was never too tired for this.

Podrick kissed his way down Timmor’s chest and belly, plying his tongue deep into the flesh of his sides. It tickled, but in the best way, the muscles jumping and responding to his lover’s ministrations. Podrick’s mouth was a furnace; Timmor’s cock was the crucible within. Timmor gripped the sheets, Podrick lifting him physically to his mouth, taking him in fully. With his lips, he pinched and pulled Timmor’s foreskin. The tip of his tongue found the delicate slit at the head and gave it its due. He released Timmor’s cock and there was momentary disappointment until he lifted him higher, curling him over, his tongue finding the entry in the cleft of his ass. Timmor shuddered uncontrollably as Podrick fucked him with his tongue, plying ever deeper, readying him for what was to come. He could not contain the moan that rolled out of him. Why bother? This night was filled with the sound of lovers, and the Islanders were clearly unrestrained.

Podrick lowered Timmor’s pelvis and just looked at him for several seconds, the curve of his great cock pulsing in the air between his belly and Timmor’s own painfully erect member. He wanted nothing more than for Podrick to impale him, but he let him look. He filled his chest with air and flexed his muscles for Podrick. As much as Timmor loved the size and shape of Podrick, so too Podrick enjoyed seeing what he loved and lusted for. Timmor had long ago absolved himself of the sin of pride in these moments. It was what his lover wanted, it was for him, and so he gave it.

Podrick’s nose flared wide at the sight and he pressed in against Timmor. The pain was sharp and sweet. They could make love a million times and still Podrick’s size would be a formidable hurdle. He breathed through it and Podrick was patient, as always, going slowly, bit by bit.

The full length of Podrick’s cock was deep within him; the pressure was breathtaking. Timmor’s eyes rolled back and he gave himself to Podrick. He reached and took the softly furred globes of Podrick’s ass, pulling him in, pressing him home. Podrick’s kisses were Timmor’s source of breath, his arms held him in this world, his cock cleaved them into one. Podrick kneeled in, thrusting deeply, pulling out almost completely before sinking in to the hilt again and again.

Timmor was lost. Podrick held his hips, driving in, the roar of his ecstasy filling the room. The sudden swelling of Podrick’s cock deep within in, the sharp pulsing, pushed Timmor over without ever touching his own cock. He imagined Podrick’s cock belonged to a god and it was lightning from the heavens that filled his body as Podrick came. That’s how it felt, how it always felt. He was breathless, Podrick slick and sweaty on top of him. He wondered if it was like this for other people, if they enjoyed it as much, if it took them so close to the brink of madness.

Podrick tried to roll off of him. Timmor held him and said, “No, stay where you are.” He would let Podrick sleep buried within him if that were possible. He kept that thought to himself. Podrick obliged and kissed him gently, languorously. When his erection abated and there was no holding him inside any longer, he let Podrick curl him in to his chest, side by side, his strong arm holding him tightly.

“Did you enjoy the feast?” Timmor asked.

“I did, but perhaps not so much as you,” Podrick replied sleepily. “You know how Brienne is regarding manners.”

Timmor laughed softly. “Can you come and see me train tomorrow?”

“I would, Tim, but we ride east tomorrow to see other crops and the preparing of spices for Lady Brienne.” Podrick kissed his apologies into Timmor’s neck until he squirmed with a giggle.

“I love you, Pod.” Timmor took his hand and placed a kiss into the palm.

“And I, you” Podrick whispered into his ear.


	12. Ser Randel

Ser Randel Penrose listened patiently to his lady explain her plans for the day, misliking the tale more and more. She had been convinced by Mosi to travel with Ser Podrick to see the fields in the east of the island for herself.

“My lady, I implore you, take another man with you.Jeimes or Alren.” He was trying her patience, but he would rather that than feel he had failed to counsel her.

“I will be perfectly fine, Ser Randel. Prince Abioye has been the soul of hospitality and Issa, Mosi, and Ser Podrick will be with me. Another man will look like I mistrust the prince.” The glance she gave him from the tail her eye said the topic was exhausted.

Still, he had to speak his peace.

“It’s that Mosi I don’t trust. He got you to mistrust _Ser Podrick_ , and that sits poorly with me.”

She turned a look of exasperation on him. “Do you take me for a turnip, Ser Randel? I know the minds of men well enough. I certainly don’t mistrust Ser Podrick with the tallying of supplies. What I heard last night was a man telling me he felt slighted by my absence, and that man has the prince’s ear, so if I have to assuage his ego in order to maintain our prospects, so be it.”

“My lady, I didn’t mean…”

She cut him off. “I know, Ser Randel. I know. You have served me well and true, and my father before me. I know the man you are, and I am grateful to you. Trust me when I say I know who this Mosi is as well.”

She clapped a hand to his shoulder and for a moment he saw the girl she had been before she left Evenfall Hall. More than one man who had dared to slight her in his presence had come to know the business end of his fist. She was her father in every way, to include her appearance, but that had hardly mattered to him when she’d taken up a sparring sword one day and demanded he fight her.She had been no more than nine years old at the time. He had laughed and pretended to fight her.When Lord Selwyn Tarth had come into the yard, to his surprise his lord had said nothing.Later, when they were alone, he had said, “Life is hard enough for pretty girls. Brienne may need to know a thing or two more than needlework and poetry.” He’d left it at that. Lord Selwyn had been a man of few words, like his daughter.

“Besides,” she said. “Other than you and myself, it seems only Ser Podrick and Timmor are remotely serviceable this morning.” That was meant as a reproach.Lady Brienne’s opinion of drunkenness was no secret. A feast was one thing, but in the halls of her own castle only a fool would be openly drunk.

“Your job today will be to round up the men, ensure no one’s gone missing, and then put them to work at the ships. I don’t care what they do, unload the cargo, mend lines, scrub the decks. Makes no matter to me. Just make sure they sweat, understand?”

That would win him no friends today, and that was _his_ punishment to bear.

“Understood, my lady.”

“Go on, then. The day grows shorter, not longer.” She glanced past him to the open door, dismissing him.

He took his leave and made his way to the pavilion where palace servants were finishing the last of the cleanup from the night before. None of Lady Brienne’s men were in evidence here. He headed to the back row of huts and began knocking on all the doors.

“Fuck off,” came the response from behind the second door he tapped. 

“Are you quite sure that’s the answer you wish to give, Carden?” Ser Randel replied in his stoniest voice.

There was a shuffling from inside the room and the door slid open a few inches. Carden’s face, puffy eyed and pale peeked out.

“Beg pardon, Ser Randel. Didn’t mean no disrespect.”

“Save your sorries and get dressed.Wake the other men and meet me in the pavilion.” Carden could listen to any further cheek in his stead. He went back to the pavilion to wait, hopefully not too long.

Half an hour passed. Timmor was the first he saw make his way from the huts, though he knew well that Timmor was not on his list today. 

“Ser Randel, good morning.” Always a polite lad. It was his charm and it made it impossible to dislike the boy.

“Good morning, Timmor. On your way to train?” he asked.

“Yes.” He sat with his fingers interlaced in front of him on the table.

“Oh, this isn’t where you want to be today, lad,” counseled Ser Randel. He explained the matter and Timmor’s lips drew together in apprehension. “You should go on to your training. The men won’t appreciate you not being included.”

“No, I imagine not,” he replied, slipping back out of the bench.

“Is Ser Podrick up?” Ser Randel asked.

“He’s gone with Lady Brienne,” Timmor replied.

“All right, then. You’d best be on your way.”

   Over the next half hour they straggled in one by one. Lady Brienne would have been livid. Ser Randel himself was beginning to boil that they seemed to think it would be any less because it was only him.

His men were all accounted for and each looked worse than the next.

He walked them to the port, but the captains of the three respective ships were less than happy about their new volunteers. Desmor, captain of the Summer Sun, complained that they would just be in the way and refused to have them aid in the unloading of the cargo when he saw their sorry state. The other captains nodded unhappy agreement. Ser Randel bid them give the men the most menial work possible.

Carden vomited twice within the first hour. When he begged off scrubbing the decks, Ser Randel played it for what it was worth, asking the regular crew of the ship if men ever had others to clean their sick. “Well of course, Ser Randel, you’ll find the lady’s maids and the cooks down below,” came one answer, and then, “It’s never come up, Ser Randel. Sailors don’t get sick. Never heard such a thing,” and then, “Them what gets sick gets put ashore, permanent-like, Ser Randel,” followed by, “I ain’t got sick from drink since I was a boy. You sure those are our men, Ser Randel?” and finally, “We should trade them in, Ser Randel, and have some of these Islanders to come with us instead. Strong as oxen, they are, _and_ they can handle a line and sail.”

The shaming was enough and the men bent to the task.

Ser Randel knew they had to be dehydrated and made certain they had water. Grog came later which seemed to push back the worst of the hangovers. He let them eat a couple of hours after midday and then figured they had had enough.

Dragging themselves back to the palace, Ser Randel did not need to imagine the impression the guards at the gate must have had of them. It was clear on their faces.

The evening meal came and a few of the men were missing. Ser Randel didn’t bother to look for them, assuming they were dead asleep. No one engaged him on conversation other than Timmor, who was as animated as ever and, letting it be known that in his own peculiar way he was falling in love with the woman Odé, whom Ser Randel had met the night before at the feast. Hard to blame him. She was an impressive sight. Tall, muscular, self possessed. In many ways very like Lady Brienne. He let the boy prattle on, actively questioning the different terms and techniques of which the boy spoke with an air of possessing arcane knowledge. It was good to see such zeal in him. It would be a shame to cut the boy’s training short when they left, and Ser Randel made a mental note to inquire about such training back at home.

Afternoon passed into darkness and darkness into the late hours.

Lady Brienne and Ser Podrick had not returned and the knot of worry that had been there all day twisted in Ser Randel’s chest. He felt bitter and angry and useless. He’d felt it, known it, that there was something odd in the way Mosi had plied and goaded Brienne. His lady was far from stupid, and usually a good judge of character, but the situation, the company, Mosi had used it to his advantage.

When Timmor appeared at his hut, his face drawn and white with worry, Ser Randel was already dressed.

“Go find Odé,” he told the boy, hating himself for being thankful that he wasn’t alone in his worry.


	13. Odé Qaxar

Odé awoke from a confused dream. She was in a cave, or it was the forest, or both at once. Running and running, a bird cawing in staccato rhythm high above, vines grabbing and tripping her, yet somehow never falling.She clawed up into the light and awoke to darkness.

Someone knocked at her door.

“Odé.” It was Timmor.What time was it?

She wrapped herself in a sheet and padded to the door.

“Tima, what do you want?” Her voice was husky with sleep.

“Lady Brienne and Ser Podrick have not returned.”

   She slid the door open, the boy looked drawn, his eyes hollow and dark.

“What time is it?” she asked, still disconnected and foggy from sleep, the images from her dream starting to fade.

“Well past midnight. Ser Randel asked me to get you.”

“Stay there,” she said, sliding the door closed. She quickly got into a pair of breeches and a sleeveless shirt, the closest things at hand. Opening the door again, Timmor’s face was streaked with tears. The boy had been so resilient and untiring in the sparring arena, determined and refusing to allow his fatigue to show.His appearance now caught her off guard; this wasn’t the young man she had come to know.

“No tears yet, Tima. Come,” she said.

   They crossed the palace complex from where Odé had her hut near the servants. It was indeed late, or early, depending on which way one figured. The silent hour between the night creatures looking for a place to curl up and the day creatures uncurling. The nightbirds would soon begin their song high in the trees, being the first to see the light. There were no servants about at this time and the palace had the appearance of being abandoned, save for the torchlights set at intervals and the ones in the permitter wall, which was always manned. She had done the task often enough before the sword caught her attention and she left the bow behind, forgotten. 

She led him to Issa’s hut, which was separate as befitted her station, ornamented with gardens and paths and a pond wherein bright fish lazily swam. When there was no answer at the door, Odé entered slowly, calling her name. The hut was empty and immaculate, as Issa always kept it. She said nothing to Timmor, nodding only for him to follow.

Mosi’s rooms were adjacent to the prince’s quarters. She made a point to approach directly, in plain sight of the guards.

“Has Mosi returned?” she asked them.

“What business have you with Mosi at this hour?” the guard replied, looking behind her, noting her companion.

“What business have you questioning me? Is he here or not?” she demanded.

“He is not,” the other guard answered.

“Wake the prince. Mosi, Issa, and Lady Brienne are missing,” she ordered.

“And Ser Podrick,” added Timmor. His voice was strained and it broke Odé’s heart a little to hear the boy lose his control.

The guards glanced at one another, unsure.The one to the left relented and went into the prince’s quarters.

“Take me to Ser Randel,” she said to Timmor, gesturing him to lead.

Ser Randel met them halfway to the guest huts. He was dressed in full livery, sword at his side, his face a brutal scowl. 

“What do you know?” he growled, half question, half accusation.

“Calm yourself. None of them have returned. I have awoken the prince so he may decide what to do.” She eyed the man. He wasn’t young, but neither was he an old done man and she was without a weapon. “I am here to help you, if it is needed. They may have simply been delayed and stopped at a village. We know nothing for the moment.”

He calmed his breath and stood straighter. “We must search for them.” He waked past her, toward the prince’s quarters.

“It is a mistake to approach the prince in anger,” she said over her shoulder.

“What would you have me do? Nothing?” he yelled, returning to her.

“Let the prince send a search party,” she said. “He will. Issa and Mosi are family to him.”

“That Mosi is behind this, I’m sure.”

“And if he is, it will come to light, but for _now_ we know nothing.” She could not imagine how Mosi would be involved in anything like this. What would he gain from it? Lady Brienne was a foreigner. She had goods to trade, but no power here, no position, no influence.

“What’s that? What are you thinking?” Ser Randel asked.

“Nothing. I am only considering your words and suspicion,” she admitted. “I can find no sense in it.”

In the distance, Mara approached. She was hastily wrapped in a shawl, her feet bare, a scarf covering her head.

“The prince has sent five men to search,” she said. “He askes for you, Odé, and you, Ser Randel.”

Ser Randel stomped off in the direction of the prince’s quarters, his boots crunching into the smooth surface of the path, leaving deep heal marks.

Mara took Odé’s hand, uncharacteristically. She was not a woman given to worry, but she was very close with Issa, the two having grown up almost as sisters.

Prince Abioye received them in his private front room. He was as disheveled and puffy from sleep as everyone. He assured everyone that there had to be a simple explanation, that jumping to conclusions was folly and only sure to get someone else hurt.

Ser Randel was not easily swayed.

“If my lady has come to harm, or Ser Podrick, there’ll be hell to pay.” It came from him cold as a mountain river.

The prince, unaccustomed to being threatened, even so vaguely, shifted and became the leopard that always hid beneath the skin. “Ser Randel, if harm has come to Lady Brienne, I will be the first to exact vengeance. She is my guest and we respect guest right as much as you. What we don’t do, which would seem to be commonplace in your realm, is harm one another so easily, so carelessly. In that, Ser Randel, we are very different.”

Ser Randel did not cow, but some of the hostility left him at the prince’s words. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

“What I have already done. I have sent men to find them. When we learn what has happened, then we will decide what else, if anything, to do. Your sword hungers for an enemy, Ser Randel. Hunger for answers first.” The prince eyed him piercingly.

“My apologies, Prince Abioye. It is hard to feel so useless.” He exhaled a long sigh through his nose.

“I have every reason to believe that Lady Brienne would want you to attend to your men, to reassure them once they wake. That would be of great use. Your men have no knowledge of the land or the people, and if they were to take it upon themselves to search for her, then we would surely have misadventure. Imagine your lady returning to find such a thing. _None_ of us would be thanked for that.” The prince gestured to himself to make it clear he did not wish to answer for such misfortune.

The prince’s sensible words seemed to settle Ser Randel for the moment. He bowed and took his leave.

The prince turned his attention to Odé.

“Don’t think to leave the palace, Odé,” he said dryly.

“Why would I leave, my prince?” she asked, hoping the disbelief in her voice came across as genuine.

“Don’t take me for a fool, and don’t cause trouble. Now is not the time.” He dismissing her with the flick of his fingers.

Timmor was sat outside on a bench, his face streaked with tears, his chest shaking.

“You must be calm, Tima. Why are you so distraught?”

He wiped his face. He made a show of collecting himself. His face was stoic though the tears still came. What had this boy gone through? What was behind this concerted shell of bravery when there was such emotional turmoil underneath?

Later for that.

“Come with me,” she said to him.

“Where are we going?”

“To cause trouble.”


End file.
